Skies of Mossflower
by Mitya Shostak
Summary: A secretive villain based in a fortress consisting of two towers unfolds his terrible plan to dominate Mossflower by air. Rating is due to extensive September 11 referencesmetaphors.
1. Verse

  
  
They say one should look to the skies,   
To seek highest goals through the air;  
Twas not meant as guard it by eyes,  
To glance up with withering fear.  
They say that the heavens are free  
To those justly determined to soar,  
But when harnessed cruelly  
Hell breaks land;there is safety no more.  
Blue is the sky  
Is the cold in the wind  
And the glint in the eye  
Of the cruel mastermind who put  
Red in the sight   
Of a wall falling down and   
Of flames in the night boiling  
Blood on the ground while  
White cold faced dead  
Are enveloped in dust  
And fear takes the hearts  
Of the live, losing trust...  
They say one should look to the skies  
And remember the innocent killed,  
But then to flex wings and to rise  
Out of tragedy, high, stronger willed!  



	2. Prologue

  
  
The pitpat of small paws and the skritskrat of tiny digging claws progressed clearly along the walltop, interspersed with scuffling, pauses, and then soft pats, after which the pitpatting resumed. Rhythmic it all was, measured and determined, the light thunk at the end of each cycle growing slightly louder each time. Grumby the infant molemaid did not seem to care in the slightest how precariously she swayed as she scooted along the ramparts and battlements of Redwall Abbey. The grainy weathered sandstone of the North, East, and South Walls and the clean, hard, new edges of the Western face did not wear at her footpaws enough to deter her from her mission.  
Grumby's tiny silhouette flitted across the Abbey's open ground as well, not noticeable as more than the mere play of sunbeams off the lush leaves of Mossflower's early autumn to most. Such a slight disturbance of shadows, however, was the figurative warning light to one old veteran guard. Roused from repose in the Orchard, Badgermum Ustela lunged to her paws, lumbering full force up to the battlements and intercepting Grumby midleap.  
What are you doing? she confronted in her most reprimanding tone. Dibbuns should know they're not to be on the walltop!  
Tapping her digging claws, little Grumby tugged her snout politely, small dark eyes pleading for forgiveness. Excusee marm, burr oi. Oi carn't be a floyin' anywhurr else, ee see. Nowhurr but ee walltop be hoigh enough.   
Even Ustela had to admit surprise at this explanation, all while still cupping a restraining paw around the infant. Moles don't fly. Especially not baby moles.  
But Oi bain't a moler, no marm. Oi be a gurt burdbag, and Oi wants to swim in ee claouds an bring sum back daown. Grumby attempted another leap unsuccessfully, then gazed into the setting sun.  
Ustela waggled her paw in Grumby's face. No, you're a mole for certain. There's only great trouble to be had when a land creature takes it into his mind to fly. Wings only go well on those who are born with them.  
Grumby folded her little arms indignantly. Oi bain't be causin' no trouble. What koind of trouble be ee in floyin'?  
The badger stood, beginning to tote the tiny mole back downwards. For a start, you could easily fall. She paused briefly, inhaling deeply before going on. And do you know why the West Wall has sharper edges, why it's a different color red than the rest of the Abbey?  
Oi allus thought that ee settin' sun' rays painted ee wall broighter red than ee rest.  
Ustela smiled sadly at this imaginative reason, shaking her great head. No, it's a different color because it's far newer than any other stones here, and it's newer because some undeserving beast branded himself with wings and carried them here?  
Grumby, again on firm ground, scratched her velvety forehead with a digging claw. What do you'm mean, marm Ustela?  
Eyes momentarily clouding with past fear and fanaticism, the Badger Mother of Redwall gently nudged Grumby forward. Go and gather the other Dibbuns, the younger Abbeybeasts, Brothers and Sisters here. Any creature less than twenty seasons, if you know. You could all stand to hear this tale.  



	3. I: The Twin Towers: 1

There is a place far off toward the edges of any atlas, bordering the uninhabitable as well. Barren desert, the sort entirely devoid of even the hardiest life, sweeps up to the foot of an imposing mountain range. The heights of these mountains remain unknown. Their tops are so obscured by a constant thick haze of cloud that no ordinary measurements, nor any figuring of trigonometric equations, could determine their tops' extent above their stratus blanket. No measurement has been obtained by pawsteps, either, though many have tried to set the values. All of those sorry creatures invariably did not return.  
  
What terrain remains on the other side of these mountains perhaps was a plateau once, very long ago. Only a very hostile region, though, could have demolished an entire flatland, leaving the shorn edge as a bare wall against the pounding of a relentless sea. Rumor has it that no marine life makes it in the cove before the mountains. Any lone fish that attempts to explore this territory is dashed against the rocks and picked up by scavenging seagulls, their wings their only method of cheating death.  
  
How any four-footed beasts reached the small flat land protrusion between the mountains and the cliff has also been lost from documentation. The evidence was there, though, indisputably wrought by many laborious paws, probably from the face of the mountain itself. In a setting so characterized by heights, an architect would have to perform the unlikely, not so much to rival Nature but rather to simply fit within her scheme.  
  
Nevertheless, their own tops often obscured by fog, two dark scepters stood like sentries on that narrow brink. They were simple in designâ€"like two boxes on end, constructed of some wood but mostly wrought iron and glass. Their exceptional element was indeed their height. The architect alone knew how tall the identical structures wereâ€"the towers' master knew once but lost track of that statistic with time. Regardless of actual figures, no other building even came close to the awesome stature of these twin towers. As for the question of why there were two-well, again logical reason and exact knowledge are absent. But if one can be built, a second is only a symbol meant to testify that their master can command reaching into the sky twice.  
  
The Northern tower, by several yards, had atop it a curious structure. An extension of some kind, constructed like a freakish weathervane of steel spikes and leather lashings pierced the clouds when present, and seemed to be spearing the very middle of the sky on a clear day, sunlight turned to an icy glint off the sharpened surface. Atop the Southern tower was framed the lone silhouette of a living creature.  
  
The weasel gazed out over the cove, his sharp eyes piercing like the device atop the other tower. All he could see down the horizon was his. But the horizon wasn't good enough. His roving pupils traced the curvature of the shore, squinting down as he imagined the contours that he could not see.  
  
The win whipped the weasel's robes around him; it whipped his tail behind him and muffled his straggly beard around his face like a scarf. It also whipped a powdered substance from his outstretched paw as he looked onward. The powderâ€"talc, or perhaps ash, or something similarâ€"traveled as if it was being pulled along a platform of air, winding a sinuous path while hovering, riding this swift current down the field of vision until it too swelled beyond the horizon.  
  
The weasel smiled thinly as the final specks disappeared, then turned and stepped back down into the tower. 


	4. I: The Twin Towers: 2

Chapter Two  
  
A dragonfly smacked hard into the clear glass window, clueless as to the pane's existence. Stunned, the insect dropped down from the blow, its wings momentarily nonfunctional. Enraged but curious, it tested them halfway down its fall from the tower, buzzing cautiously to investigate the unseen cause of its discomfort.  
Nadal ob Insame watched the iridescent blue creature rattling outside his window, his dark eyes fixated on the blurred flutter of the dragonfly's wings. Slowly rising from his chair so as to not frighten the dragonfly, the weasel crept toward the window, smiling thinly through his beard. He extended one paw, glacially turning the latch and pulling the pane open, crack by crack.  
The dragonfly darted into the room, shimmering from point to point like a needle in midair. It was very confused. It had just flown through a barrier it had previously run into, through a puzzling empty space into a peculiar dark space. The dragonfly had no concept of a room. Skimming the perimeter, grazing the wall, it eventually buzzed up to Nadal, twitching its antennae quizzically at the only other living thing in the room. Nadal watched it stonefaced, showing not a flinch as he quickly swept a paw over the insect, a claw neatly pinning the center of the slender azure body to the table before him.   
Nadal said nothing as he retracted his claw, wiping it clean on the tip of his beard. He then lifted the dead insect with surprising care, looking it over with the refined gaze of an entomologist, taking careful mental note of all features and joints. The same claw which ended the creature's life carefully manipulated the slightly pearlescent wings as they once moved in life, frame-by-frame slowly. Nadal maintained this practice for some minutes, though when the saturation point arrived he deftly plucked the wings from the thorax like a child who tortures flies, laying them carefully on the table and tossing the rest of the body back out of the open window.  
Roth! Get up here! Roth! Nadal uttered a call that was not so much loud as simply grating. Not leaving his seat, the weasel still sent his summons ricocheting down the levels of his tower.  
A small fox scampered up the stairs, his scrawny disheveled form heaving from the exertion of scaling many stories within the tower. I need to devise a better way to get up here, thought Thadius Roth, concern marking his rust-furred features. Roth assumed the mannerisms of a submissive-minded lackey, all the while his finetuned scientific brain ticked away at ob Insame's assignments and his own mechanical hypotheses. The fox did not flaunt his talents as an engineer and an architect; even had he wanted to, there was no need to brag. His identical towers, ingeniously balanced on wooden cords, iron rods, and glass plates quite literally stood for themselves.   
Thadius did not need Nadal's bidding to understand that he was about to receive a new project. Approaching the table, his ears turned forward to pick up Nadal's normal grating whisper. The weasel snatched Thadius' paw, placing it firmly on the table beside the disembodied dragonfly wings. Can you make me something like this, Roth? Something my size, something light and mobile?  
There was no saying no to Nadal ob Insame. Thadius pulled a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles from his pocket, placing them on the tip of his muzzle and examining the wings through the lenses. I believe I could, yes, I'm fairly certain that I could. Thadius gently swept the wings onto a handkerchief he had also produced from a pocket. But dare I ask what for?   
Nadal ob Insame's hard dark eyes glinted with ominous inspiration. It is best that you do not ask, Roth. You shall know when I decide that you shall know. Classified information, retained by one.   
Thadius did not further question his duty, descending the staircase to his workroom.  



	5. I: The Twin Towers: 3

Goldenrod-hued light cast down through a crack in the rocks, ricocheting its beams from slab to slab and finally falling as one concentrated diagonal shaft on the otherwise dark cave floor. The angle of this column of light slowly lengthened, eventually not bending much in its path to cross the nose of a sleeping beast.  
Nyctllr stirred, mumbling softly and scrunching back onto her bed, opening one eye only and regarding the shaft. It served as her alarm clock—to use an anachronistic term—falling precisely so at the time at which she needed to wake up. Nyctllr eventually drew herself upward and peered out the crack in the wall, the pupils in her dark eyes opening to the dim carmine-crimson sky. No matter how tired she may have been, the biological clock within her caused her to respond so each day.  
Another figure glided ecstatically into the room. "Nyctllr! Hey Nyc!" The voice was young and excited, and its somewhat tubby owner prodded Nyc in the shoulder. "There's moths, Nyc!"  
"Uhhh, Llewtcy..." Nyc turned and shoved Llewtcy back. "So it's the first of the season. You know as well as I do, Llew, that they'll be around all night and so on for weeks..."  
Llewtcy stamped a footpaw indignantly, her vocal tone fringing on a whine. "You have no joy in getting there first?"  
The coming of the first moths of the season remains a significant celebration for the bats of Fyngall's Cave. These silent wings of night are respected by the bats even as they are harvested; not more are to be taken than are intended for culinary practices. Gnats, mosquitoes, and beetles in their loud approach to flight do not garner the same reverence as moths, who the bats most liken to themselves.  
Nyc stretched her wings and yawned, looking again at the rapidly diminishing patch of light. "I'm sure they don't take the same festive cast to the occasion."  
Llew rolled her eyes, exasperated by her friend's dry logic. "Well at least come outside. You'd be plain stupid to keep away in here all night, what when the air's so nice. Plain downright stupid."  
Logic holds no objections to a bit of fresh air. Stretching her sails a bit wider, Nyctllr walked after the exuberantly bounding Llewtcy, lifting off with an eased flick of her wings upon exiting the cave.  
Most of the other Fyngall bats were already out and about, coasting in repose on the characteristic breezes of an early summer evening. Insects of all varieties shared the skies, though the furred individuals were only on this occasion interested in the dust-winged silent moths. These were abundant; the bats did not need artificial lights to draw their special breakfasts to them.  
Llewtcy flew about with her mouth open, nondiscriminatory in her choice of fare. She winged in the wake of other bats, scooping up those insects scared off in the wake of other beating sails. She stored the bugs in her cheeks not unlike how a chipmunk or squirrel will sometimes hold nuts, crunching and catching all at once. Nyctllr lazed alongside her stomach-oriented friend, snatching the occasional morsel in flight but initially burning all absorbed energy through the motion of her wings.  
As time progressed the bats ventured and further from the cave, a migration reserved for the occasion of months. Fruit could be sought by small parties of scouts sent in various directions, but the phenomenon of great clouds of moths needed to be pursued. Nyc, her stomach filled, followed in tradition, and soon, rising higher, found herself swept by a constant stream of wind.  
"Whoo!" she whooped, skimming out of the current, then backing up and riding it again. "Llew!" Nyc's sleepy dryness wore off with the exhilarating breath of air.  
Llew winged over, a moth antenna stuck between her teeth. "Wot?"  
Nyc demonstrated the current again. "Look! It's the Windburn! I've heard of it, but I've never found it before!"  
Llew flew up, though below the draw of the current. "Looks fun, yes," she noted, "but I shouldn't. The ride would do my guts a terrible turn. Y'know, I think I ate too much..." 


	6. I: The Twin Towers: 4

Nadal ob Insame did not keep both towers to himself. They were both his fortress, to be certain, but only the Southernmost tower was his lair. Nadal roamed the floors as he wished, maintaining the entire structure for himself alone. He could expect no intrusion save for the one level that contained the workshop laboratory of the fox Thadius Roth, and he could even do his brooding there should he choose to abandon his customary top floor. An entire tower certainly too much space for a lone weasel, but Nadal did not transfer even his most trusted officials to actual residence within.  
The Northern tower, therefore, was overcrowded. It served as the barracks of a great vermin horde, teeming with wretched specimens of varying species, squabbling within the peculiarly vertical structure over who got the most floor space for himself and his filthy belongings. Yet not even all of the levels were reserved for the scum of Nadal's following. Several levels housed officers or favorite lackeys. One at the middle served as the galley, where thrice daily Nadal's vermin rushed in from above and below, fighting tooth and claw to be first in line, streaking back out to avoid being trampled by the regular stampede. Many often were.  
Roth's architecture was ingenious—further showing its resilience by remaining erect through all the interior ruckus. Nadal's utilization of space, however, was clearly faulty. He knew this, but he did not particularly care about it. His hordebeasts were fully expendable. He instead focused on his more creative allotment of floors. Nadal was immensely proud of his dungeon, unconventionally occupying the top two floors of the Northern tower. Land creatures tended to fear the obvious drop clearly exhibited through windows; that and the knowledge of hordebeasts below prevented escape. Flighted creatures were instead taunted and tempted by the incredible expanse of sky, though freedom was much further away than it seemed. Fine wire screens separated the glass panes from the occupants, and sharp beak tips were capped so as to prevent their tearing through the mesh and smashing the glass.  
Nadal was seeking somebeast, though not a prisoner. If a prisoner had been allowed the "privilege" of Nadal's mission, that prisoner might have had an easy way out. No, Nadal wanted a hordebeast. The gaunt weasel made a rare venture into the Northern tower, assisted in his quest by his second in command, a surly rat named Kaliban. The rat escorted his leader from level to level, allowing Nadal's sharp dark eyes to search the masses.  
Nadal finally made his decision some ten stories up. Sliding through gaping clumps of half-witted soldiers, he approached a short and potbellied stoat. He rested an uncomfortably light paw on the stoat's shoulder, smiling thinly though the gesture was lost in his beard. Kammer, the stoat, gurgled at Nadal, not certain what to think let alone what to say. Nadal patted Kammer again, beckoning, "Come with me."   
Kammer was ridiculously fazed by Nadal's stereotypical calling. His body slumped after Nadal and Kaliban, following blindly. They went back down the ten flights of stairs, traversed the ground between the two towers, then climbed to the top of the Southern tower, all in solemn silent procession. Kammer felt honored and puzzled at this venture in to Nadal's space, though his eyes widened in dismay as they stopped by the edge of the roof. Standing there also in straightfaced silence was Thadius Roth, who was holding a most peculiar contraption. Two sheets of glass of the most incredible thinness interlaced with a lattice of wire were extraordinarily cautiously passed from fox to weasel, while rat stood still and stoat trembled.  
Nadal tugged at Kammer's arms, twisting them so drastically that the stoat winced and gritted his teeth, while trying to attach the contraptions to Kammer's own appendages. Eventually Roth moved to help him, swiftly throwing leather straps around the stoat's slumped shoulders and locking his paws into place with metal gauntlets. The device attached, Thadius backed off, eyeing Nadal disapprovingly.  
Nadal smirked at Kammer, who was awkwardly flapping his newly burdened arms. "Well," the weasel said, "You have the right idea, it seems, though you look far more like a beetle than a dragonfly. What do you think?"  
Kammer gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing frantically in his neck.  
Kaliban approached the stricken stoat, nodding in agreement. "Cert'nly. But any'ow, let's see 'ow this here beetle does in th' air!"  
Kammer looked over the edge of the tower and panicked, his footpaws starting into action. Before his claws could grip the surface, however, the stoat was heaved upward and tossed by the grinning rat. His doomed expression vanished momentarily as he instinctively extended his arms, as the glass prosthetics caught the air and lifted him, carrying him several yards. Kammer's face did not have time, though, to revert to its initial alarm as gravity dominated over lift after all.  
  
*****  
  
A large hawk curiously watched the proceedings. He'd never seen anything fly vertically downward before, particularly not off of a tower. The hawk glided closer, creeling in further surprise as his keen eyesight tagged the would-be avian as musteline. Very odd, he thought, and he resolved to find the cause. Broad wings easily beat the air until the hawk was suddenly bowled forward by a gust of air as he approached the twin towers. Squawking alarmedly, he maneuvered feathers and feet as he could to swing out of the current.  
His plan failed. Whipped by the curious wind, the hawk flailed into the structure atop the Northern tower. Angered by the collision, the great bird struggled, clawing and pecking, only to find that the steel and leather became a restraint, holding faster the more he fought it. At first the hawk did not want to believe his predicament, though he was eventually forced to go limp with pain and disgrace, using his last strength to squawk raggedly into the wind. 


	7. I: The Twin Towers: 5

Ê Ê Ê Ê Thadius gasped and darted into the room, wincing as he noted the arrow embedded in the woodwork of the door, the arrow that flew a fraction of an inch from his eartips. The fox padded with extreme caution, his eyes after sighting the arrow fixed on his commander in the middle of the room. Nadal glowered darkly, his arms still poised as they were when he released the arrow from his bow, the quiver beside him only half full with shafts.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê ÒSir?Ó Thadius queried, withering under NadalÕs gaze as much as he attempted to remain professional, taking note of a distracting number of arrows stuck into other areas of the wall as well.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê ÒI need to go out again,Ó Nadal flatly bulleted, not necessarily to Thadius nor to anybeast else. ÒI need to go up again.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê ÒSir...Ó Thadius repeated, a faint flicker of uncertainty marring his tone.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê ÒYou donÕt know how to manage that, Roth,Ó Nadal continued, eyes still straight as if the fox was not in the room. ÒGo get Kaliban, Roth.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Thadius remained, taking a step forward, even, not so wise for the mood tension permeating the room. ÒPerhaps, sir, I should rather improve the design? I believe it can be done.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Nadal, in a natural flick of his wrist, strung and fired another arrow, which glanced along the windowsill and slipped out an open crack in the pane. ÒNo, Roth. Get Kaliban.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê ÒThat is the process of engineering, sir, to base the effective off the erroneous.Ó ThadiusÕ attempt to sound level wasnÕt completely convincing yet.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê ÒThat engineering does me no good. I donÕt understand it,Ó Nadal snapped back. ÒI need to go out. I need to be in air to think about air.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Thadius was a smart beast, so in several senses. The intelligent know the value of a mistake, as well as the merit of not testing beyond a clear limit. Nodding once, the fox left.  
  
*****  
  
Ê Ê Ê Ê The room was dark. His vision rendered ineffective, the hawk struggled about, a mass of feathers and talons entangled in restraints, blunted beak klacking wildly. He had no sensation of time or surroundings, only dark and that sleep did not make him feel any better. Plumage clouded about him as if he was molting, but the hawk could not see it. He felt his way, twisting his bruised and strained body, his talons clawing at the peculiar cap on his beak. Being imprisoned by dark is only a phenomenon of rotating planetsÑit lasts only as long as half of the day. Physical restraints are entirely different, and the blind claws kept working...  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Suddenly, he blinked, shrieking in surprise as the light of full day flooded his vision. The beak was suddenly forgotten as the hawk righted himself, gaping incredulously at the dark blindfold hooked around one talon.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê ÒKchahahacha! Silly bird, silly birdie! YouÕre still trapped, still very trapped! Kchakrakhah!Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Again the hawkÕs attention was diverted, his sharp amber eyes focused on the speaker among a group of ravens sharing his space. ÒTroyte Nevinson Sinclair is no silly birdie!Ó he puffed, advancing and skidding on his own shed plumage.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê ÒKchahakarrakaah!Ó The ravens chorused in their raucous laughter, and a gaze of pure wounded pride radiated from Troyte to the apparent leader.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Troyte glared as if to wither all of his tormenters, but his narrowing eyes and bushing feathers only succeeded in further promoting laughter. ÒYou wonÕt last long like that, kcharr!Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê ÒLast long? What do you mean, last long, featherbag?Ó TroyteÕs attempt to sound menacing was canceled out by his worry as to meaning.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê The leader raven thumped his apparent sidekick on the back, still cackling. ÒFeatherbag? Krakkachakkakarr! He called us featherbags, eh, Quillfletcher!Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Quillfletcher, the sidekick, thumped the leader back. ÒHeÕs wrong, Holdsclaw, wrong! Krakk!Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Troyte snorted, semi-derisively. ÒWell then, youÕre a featherbrain if you donÕt explain to me precisely whatÕs going on!Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Holdsclaw composed himself, approaching Troyte and staring the hawk down. ÒYou may think youÕre nobility, but here that doesnÕt matter. WeÕre all stuck, and unless you quit mouthing off, thingsÕll get more pleasant for us and less so for you. Krreargh!Ó The raven snapped his beak.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Troyte ruffled his feathers, then deflated. ÒWeÕre really trapped, then, are we?Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Quillfletcher knocked his own capped beak against the meshing that barred them from the window. ÒRrak! Entirely trapped.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Flumping down, Troyte emitted a genuine whine. ÒBut why?Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Holdsclaw scraped a talon across the floor, highly irritate by the newest prisoner. ÒI know the reason, kaaak, but now the cause,Ó he explained tersely, bracing himself for the next inquiry.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê ÒSo then, whatÕs that reason?Ó Troyte turned his head to the side expectantly.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Holdsclaw and Quillfletcher exchanged irritated glances, then the former spoke again. ÒYouÕll learn when itÕs time, rrakka, when itÕs time!Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê As if all was prearranged, a key clicked in the lock and Kaliban entered the chamber. 


	8. I: The Twin Towers: 6

The next night, Nyctllr was up early. She seemed to anticipate the waning sunlight playing across her eyelids, and was startled to notice that the stripe of light had yet to reach her perch when she opened her eyes. But Nyc did not object. When a body is inclined to rise early, it has some sort of chemical-psychological rationalization, and Nyc therefore found no need to wonder why her last hour of sleep was cut short, nor did she attempt to catch those few minutes. She figured she knew what was on her mind. Nyc padded to the exit of the cave and was struck by more light than she usually ever saw. Discouraged, she returned inside, setting another task for herself while awaiting the softer light of evening.  
Those who eat much tend to sleep hard. Llewtcy was no different than the standard member of this class. And this evening it was NyctllrÕs turn to bring her friend back into the world of the conscious. Nyc was less subtle even than Llew in her practices as a wake up call. Though her step was light, the flat of her wing fell heavily on the exposed curve of LlewtcyÕs stomach.  
ÒHey! ThereÕs plenny of room for breakfast in there without you knocking the rest out!Ó Llew rubbed her stomach and glared at Nyc.  
Nyc smirked. ÒMy intent wasnÕt to make room for anything. My intent was to wake you up so you can follow me. But knowing you, youÕll be hungry anyway.Ó  
Forgetting the smack, Llew beamed. ÒIÕve been told I could out-eat a hare!Ó  
ÒItÕs a wonder you stay aloft.Ó Nyc beckoned toward the door.  
ÒWhere are we going?Ó  
ÒYou should know soon enough.Ó  
And she did know soon. The moths, true to their relationship, were key. Llew ate them, but Nyc observed the flight patterns in the swarms, and deriving wind direction from that information soon confidently led them to their destination.  
ÒWhat do you think causes the Windburn?Ó Nyc asked of Llew, the both of them riding lightly along the swift stream of air, wingsails spread wide.  
ÒI dunno,Ó Llew shrugged, content to take the air just for what it was. ÒI never thought much about it. I think I heard some stories, though. Some legend-thingummy, I think, about this great huge bat stuck in something, and he keeps on beating his wings to try and escape, but he never does. And I guess he never will.Ó  
The wind carried them swiftly but gently toward a tree. Nyc swerved out of the current and Llew followed, continuing to backtrack toward their starting point.  
ÒI think thatÕs where the word ÔwindÕ comes from,Ó Llew added as the two swung in to ride again. ÒYou know, it sounds a bit like Ôwing,Õ like the wings of that big bat.Ó  
Nyc grinned at her friend. ÒIÕve never heard that one before.Ó  
Llew shrugged again, shoulder easing into the wind. ÒWhatÕs wrong with it? What do you think?Ó  
Eyebrow raised confidently, Nyctllr adopted a vocal tone that could rival the top lecturer and hypothesizer in the field of the natural sciences. ÒWell, we are quite close to the coastline, and I know there are special winds that always come with the ocean, so maybe those try to blow inland, but they hit the mountains and become the Windburn instead.Ó  
Llew blinked vacantly. ÒWhere did you get that? Makes no more or less sense than mine!Ó  
ÒI never said I was right,Ó Nyc responded. ÒI was only thinking, and even that doesnÕt matter. The Windburn is here, whyever so. ItÕs just here.Ó 


	9. I: The Twin Towers: 7

Troyte flapped lopsidedly, making his way across the sky sure enough, but in a rather skewed and halting manner. The leather harness around his body was very restricting, and he had nearly crashed and dislocated his own wing trying to dispute its placement. HeÕd clearly lost that battle, though, and there he was, harnessed. Troyte also thought that the thing looked positively stupid, and still clinging to his battered pride the hawk did his best to protest by impairing his flight as much as possible without crashing, which nevertheless almost happened several times. He got worse than a drop, though, and more regularly. The weasel, armed with a whip and sitting on TroyteÕs harness did not make the experience any easier for the big hawk.  
Nadal led the formation from TroyteÕs back, with other hordebeasts similarly mounted and following behind. The ravens passed through the air steadily, as if broken to their task.  
Holdsclaw approached Troyte with a derogatory klack of his beak. ÒKrahh! You canÕt fly like that, not like that if you want to keep out of pain! Rrak! I know better!Ó  
Troyte glared back. ÒSo you held my job first, eh?Ó The intonation on ÒjobÓ was very sour. ÒAnd you were proud? You can have it back!Ó  
Troyte suddenly screeched as Nadal jabbed the handle of his whip between the hawkÕs wings. ÒThe only way youÕre getting out of this is if you die, bird!Ó Nadal snarled down at his wayward transportation.  
Casting a defiant glance at Nadal, Troyte opened his beak to speak, but his expression changed before any words came out. ÒWell, I donÕt really want to die...Ó he stated honestly.  
ÒGood. Then you can keep going.Ó Nadal jabbed Troyte with the whip handle again.  
The hawk flew on dejectedly, flanked by jeering ravens. The course was unpredictable and errant, governed by the directions in which Nadal cracked his whip.  
The wind suddenly increased. Instinctively Troyte darted to the side to avoid the gust, but Nadal jabbed him once more and Holdsclaw impacted him from the side, driving the hawk back into the stream of air. Troyte then tried to adjust, varying the speed of his wings, then the angle, then the tilt of his head and tail and so on. He finally settled into a surprisingly lazy but efficient pattern of spreading his wings as wide as he could, tilted slightly upward and only actually flapping when he felt himself nearing the edge of the current. Nadal seemed satiated by this, and although Troyte would have hated to admit it, he wasnÕt entirely minding this coasting either.  
They maintained this until Nadal ob InsameÕs twin towers were lost in the distance. Two other figures of interest, however, came into NadalÕs field of vision, and the weasel sat up straight. ÒKaliban, what do you make of that?Ó  
The rat, riding Holdsclaw, approached his leader. ÒWinged beasts oÕ some sort, ahead.Ó  
ÒI can see that,Ó Nadal snapped. ÒBut what do you make of their being in my air?Ó Ob InsameÕs voice assumed a new edge.  
ÒUhmm,Ó Troyte interjected, ÒAs a flighted creature myself, I should like to note that it is common thought among my kind that the air is free, and trespassing may only be called if physical property is touched.Ó  
ÒYouÕre wrong, bird.Ó Nadal leaned over TroyteÕs head, looking toward the figures ahead. ÒBring me closer.Ó  
Troyte did not alter his pattern of flight.  
This time Nadal snapped his whip across TroyteÕs shoulderblades. The shock caused the hawkÕs muscles to contract, and his following action was to speed up indeed, rather thoughtlessly. The two shadowed figures were approached, and it did not occur to Troyte to slow back down until he heard the distinct noise of the whisk of a whip in air.   
With a pang of compassion for his winged brethren, Troyte swerved sharply in an attempt to divert Nadal from his course. So intent was he on this that he again forgot to do somethingÑto watch where he was flying. With a jarring blow and a dull thud Troyte careened into a tree, Nadal still on his back. The weaselÕs arm flailed and his whip caught one of the creatures across the back. The first flew into the second, and they too plummeted, just barely behind Troyte and Nadal.  
  
*****  
  
Troyte was only stunned, not knocked out. He was able to swoop up in time, just seconds before he and Nadal hit the ground. The two other winged beasts, however, fell upon each other at the base of the tree, out cold. Kaliban did not even bother asking if it was necessary to pick them up and bring them back to the towers. 


	10. I: The Twin Towers: 8

The chamber appeared empty. Kaliban had fully expected a raging tirade upon his opening the door, but the rat immediately became worried when he was reprimanded only by silence. Haltingly he entered, advancing step by step, head swerving mechanically to scan every inch of the room.  
His visual search proved nothing, but KalibanÕs large ears were not so for the purpose of being deaf. They caught the slightest of a sickly moan, eminating from a corner. KalibanÕs paw flew to the hilt of his saber, but he did not draw it fully. He tiptoed instead toward the sound. And his saber clattered to the ground when he discovered the cause.  
Nadal ob Insame may have been gaunt, but Kaliban had never applied the term ÒsicklyÓ to his leader before. Yet that was how Nadal appeared, tensed into a fetal position on the floor, eyes squeezed shut, teeth bared and grinding into each other.  
The stereotypical hordebeast might have taken advantage of this turn of events to sieze command for himself, but Kaliban did no such thing. The stereotypical hordebeast would say out of stupidity, while the stereotypical warlord would say from intelligence, but regardless of those labels Kaliban ran from the room.  
He returned several minutes later, essentially dragging Thadius Roth with him. Upon reaching the stricken Nadal again, Kaliban attempted to keep an air of command in his voice as he demanded of the fox, ÒWhatÕs wrong with Ôim?Ó  
Wordlessly Thadius produced a vial heÕd barely had time to snatch before being dragged off by Kaliban. Going down on his knees, he poured the contents onto NadalÕs gritted teeth, not looking up until he saw NadalÕs tongue lick the solution down.  
ÒWas it related tÕ thÕ fall Ôe took yesterday?Ó Kaliban inquired again.  
Thadius stood and capped the vial. ÒHe has had gut troubles for some time now, he takes this regularly. But the fall, the stress could have caused extraneous onset, yes.Ó  
Kaliban simply nodded, watching NadalÕs form with wide eyes and thin lips.  
Nadal stirred, slowly and agonizingly stretching his slender form to its normal height, then dragging himself into a standing position. The ordeal was as painful to watch as it was for Nadal himself.  
ÒSir,Ó Roth stated quietly.  
ÒThank...you, Roth,Ó Nadal hissed quietly as well, strained both to speak and to sound grateful.  
Thadius nodded curtly, and Kaliban stepped forward. ÒWeÕve summat else that might just Ôelp yer state further.Ó  
ÒNo,Ó Nadal intoned. ÒI cannot let prisoners see me in this...weak...state.Ó  
ÒThatÕs not what I meant,Ó Kaliban told him.  
Roth held up a paw before the ratÕs face. ÒNow might not be the best time for that, either.Ó  
Nadal used his own paw to press the foxÕs down. ÒI want to see this, if it is not living. I am not helpless.Ó  
Thadius motioned Nadal to come, with Kaliban following along, wearing the expression of a child who gleefully fries ants with a magnifying glass. They again went down the stairs to the base of NadalÕs tower, traversed the ground between the two buildings, and climbed back up to the top of the second. Nadal periodically enlisted KalibanÕs and ThadiusÕ help in the climb, but he had already recovered a surprising amount of strength since his bout of sickness.  
ÒThe idea struck me, nearly literally, when you were setting off arrows in your chamber the other day,Ó Thadius explained, crossing his arms and stepping to the side.  
If the standard longbow is the height of the standard hare, then the single creature able to weild the bow on the roof would have needed to be an elephant or somebeast else of equal size. Turned on its side it spanned nearly the entire width of the tower; the circumference of the bow itself was that of a fair-sized tree, and the breadth of the string involved many thick ropes braided together. The arrow to the side was as thick as a canoe, and indeed had a seat carved into it as well. Its tip was forged steel and its shaft light wood. It had grooves carved in it for fletching, but lacked feathers as of yet.  
Nadal paced back and forth, running his paw along the shaft of the mammoth arrow.  
ÒI am assuming you know what is to be made of it,Ó Thadius stated. Nadal nodded. The fox continued. ÒAll that is left to be taken care of is the fletching. Then we can test it.Ó  
Apparently having forgotten all traces of illness, Nadal strode confidently toward the stairs leading back into the tower. ÒI can get fletching. We will test this evening.Ó 


	11. I: The Twin Towers: 9

Nyctllr looked up very warily at the sharp beak pointing down at her. Troyte glanced toward the floor, puzzled by this peculiar creature with both fur and wings. Clearly, neither knew precisely what to make of the other.  
They maintained this almost comically exaggerated position for quite some time. Troyte finally broke this lock, making the first move forward. His calculation was not exact, however, and again the hawk skidded uncontrollably forth. Nyctllr automatically moved to the defensive, small fangs bared and wingsails spread.  
Having not intended a hostile advance, Troyte managed to swerve his skid away. ÒWhoa, whoa, hold back, cummon...Just curious. Never seen aÑÓ  
ÒBat,Ó Nyctllr supplied tersely. ÒAnd youÕre lying. You captured us yesterday. DonÕt lie.Ó  
TroyteÕs eyes widened in surprise. ÒCaptured? Me? Now come on...Ó The hawk made a wide wing gesture about the room. ÒIf IÕd actually meant to catch you, which of course I didnÕt, why on land or in sky would I have stuck you in here, up high, in a veritable cage, and whatÕs more in the same boat as myself. Unlikely, very much so.Ó Troyte clacked his blunted beak for finality.  
To the roomÕs side, Llewtcy squeaked feebly, trying whatever she could (and to no use) to ease or ignore the searing pain of a long tear in her membranous wing. Nyc turned a compassionate eye toward her friend, but it hardened again in respect to Troyte. ÒYou still knocked us down.Ó  
ÒWhat makes you think that I meant it?Ó Troyte queried incredulously. ÒDo I look like a maniac to you?Ó  
ÒWell if, not you, then who?Ó Nyc tapped a footpaw.  
ÒBeast by the name of Nadal ob Insame.Ó TroyteÕs tone seemed mildly irritated at the name.  
Sensing conspiracy, Nyc shot back, ÒHow do I know thatÕs not your name?Ó  
The hawk puffed offendedly. ÒWhy, IÕm Troyte Nevinson Sinclair!Ó  
Turning morosely from a stare out the window, Holdsclaw sneered, ÒKrah...No such feared name would fit such a buffoon! Arrak! He was here earlier. You still slept. He came, he took Quillfletcher, he left. Arrak!Ó The normally martial raven seemed indeed distressed by the absence of his lieutenant.  
For once, Troyte wasnÕt moved to quarrel with Holdsclaw. Nodding vigorously, he elaborated, ÒNadalÕs a weasel, tall skinny, wispy beard and sunken eyes. Really quite frightening. HeÕs got a horde, of course, but we donÕt really see them. ThereÕs a fox and a rat too, they do show up, scary too. Scary in different ways. The ratÕs big and armed, and the fox...Well, heÕs scary because he doesnÕt look all that scary, if you know what I mean.Ó  
ÒKrrk,Ó Holdsclaw interjected, darkly as before. ÒYou speak much for having been here so short a time.Ó The ravenÕs gaze did not stray from the window.  
Troyte made no sign that heÕd heard the comment. ÒBut anyway, he uses us to fly.Ó  
ÒTo...fly?Ó Nyc repeated skeptically.  
ÒIndeed.Ó Troyte nodded.  
ÒI donÕt see how that makes sense, what thatÕs supposed to mean.Ó  
Before Troyte or Holdsclaw could satiate the batÕs inquiries, a giant arrow with fletching of ink black streaked past the window. Astride the shaft was a stoat, grinning dementedly, swinging his fist as if twirling a lasso.  
NyctllrÕs hostility vanished. ÒTo fly. I...see.Ó  
  
*****  
  
Raskol the stoat had never felt anything quite like this before. He admitted to himself that heÕd been scared to be chosen, that the giant bow and arrow had worried him to the extreme, that the twang of the string had brought his fur to stand on end. Raskol would only admit it to himself, though, because now that he was aloft he was loving every second of it.  
The stoat extended his arms, imagining that they were wings, looking straight on into the clear blue midday sky. He paid no heed to the oversized arrow that bore him, instead yearning back to the fantasies of any youngbeast that ever hoped to occupy the skies. Aloft, Raskol didnÕt think of himself as a hordebeast, a pioneer, or any position. He was just a creature enjoying the time of his life.  
Below, treetops whisked by, a treasurable lay of the land. But focused on sky alone Raskol did not notice the treetops growing steadily closer to his dangling footpaws. Like all projectiles, arrows move in parabolic paths. RaskolÕs arrow, despite its size and purpose, was no different. Having moved past its apex unnoticed, the arrow was seemingly suddenly throwing Raskol hard against the ground, graciously snapping his neck before his illusion of flight was shattered. 


	12. I: The Twin Towers: 10

Thadius Roth was loathe to dismiss the arrow plans, but Raskol had not returned. As part of the test mission the stoat had been equipped with directions and enough provisions to take him back to the twin towers. Yet Raskol had not returned. The eventual target was not so far away that, even if the stoat had reached it, he wouldnÕt have taken so long to return. And Raskol had not returned. Thadius knew it was time to move to newer plans.  
Thadius had long wondered about the properties of fire. What its state of matter was baffled him, not to mention why it took that particular form. There were other principles of flame, however, that the fox better understood. By chance heÕd once found that a strip of cloth hanging a foot or so above a candle flame was moved, slightly lifted by the fire. He wasnÕt sure exactly why, but the principle was what mattered.  
The fox gathered varied scraps of material, holding each over a lit candle to determine which remained airborne for the longest time. He was experimenting with a swatch of waxed canvas when Nadal, as if from nowhere, appeared. ÒWhy are you playing, Roth?Ó  
Thadius released the fabric, which remained afloat a moment longer before drifting to the side. ÒSir, I am not playing. I have taken notes on the properties of flame and levitation, andÑÓ  
Nadal licked one finger and used it to extinguish the flame. ÒI have something more interesting for you.Ó  
Ob Insame had already taken the liberty of bringing the injured Llewtcy out of the dungeon. He snapped his fingers and she timidly entered, too occupied by the pain in her wing and the fear in her heart to protest or run. The bat lowered her head and closed her eyes as the weasel gestured toward her. ÒAmazing construction, is it not?Ó  
Nodding, Thadius approached Llewtcy, extending his paw toward the tear in her sail. Llew winced. Thadius backed up, rummaging through his workshop and emerging from the clutter with needle, thread, and chloroform. ÒThat is repairable.Ó  
Thadius poured a small amount of chloroform onto a nearby rag, wafting it under LlewtcyÕs nose. As the bat grew groggy, the fox closed the wound with a neat row of tiny stitches.  
Nadal looked approvingly on RothÕs work with a thin smile. ÒYes, I do suppose that flight would be hindered due to a hole,Ó he mused. ÒEasier to fix now than later?Ó  
As he tied the final stitch, Thadius nodded to his commander. ÒThe same principle as the gliders we tried earlier. They catch the air and ride on it. Of course, with bats the wings serve as arms and are steered by finger motions.Ó He paused his explanation just long enough to run a finger along one bony spar in LlewtcyÕs wing. ÒThe control is more extreme, more versatile. Yes, that must be why you brought her here. If I can match the natural design of her body in some synthetic form, something a creature could maneuver with a similar proficiency to a batÕs...That, I think, would solve our landlock problem!Ó Thadius clapped his paws in a rare show of enthusiasm.  
ÒRoth, you...think about that,Ó Nadal told Thadius, carefully lifting the slumbering Llewtcy and carrying her the full distance upstairs to his private chamber. With almost uncharacteristic delicateness, he laid the bat out on his personal table, eyes fixed on his wings. Although awkward at times, his stare did not divert even as he paced about the table, not unlike a soldier guarding a tomb.  
As if heÕd caught something from Thadius Roth, Nadal ob Insame began to think aloud as he paced. ÒBat wings...a natural structure, time proven, does work. CanÕt improve upon nature. And nature has set up bats as goodbeasts, which is all the better, all the better indeed. Redwall would think nothing of a big group of bats flying in for a visit, and at night, why, they wouldnÕt see well enough to recognize the difference...Ó  
Very pleased with himself, Nadal stopped in midstride, grasping the end of the table with a wild gleam in his eyes and a feral grin shaping his maw.  
  
*****  
  
Medical history retains all peculiar cases. Several such cases deal with the malfunction of anesthesia. The rare patient will report that certain nerves fail to be quieted. Some simply do not fall asleep, while others are completely conscious within an immoble body. The entire spectrum.   
Llewtcy was among the latter group. She lay completely helpless on NadalÕs table, aural receptors catching the weaselÕs every word, pain receptors screaming to no avail at the probing in her wing joints. 


	13. I: The Twin Towers: 11

ÒEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!Ó  
Bats are known for their skill of echolocations, which involves making high-pitched squeaks whose sound waves bounce off surrounding objects into batsÕ ears, alerting them of obstavles. Though extremely high-pitched indeed, NyctllrÕs shriek was not intended to lead her anywhere.  
Llewtcy lay on the air dungeonÕs floor, having been deposited there by Nadal ob Insame himself. Her face was horribly worn, exhausted and traumatized. Her dark eyes, half-lidded, had a glazed look to them, the glazing that comes to those who have lost all will to live. Yet even that doomed expression wasnÕt the most horrific thing about LlewtcyÕs appearance. Most likely the cause of her despondence was her glaring lack of wings. Raw open flesh lined LlewÕs sides from shoulder to hip, fringed with dried blood and still welling fresh. No effort had been made to close the cruel wounds.  
Horrified, Nyc sat at her stricken companionÕs side, wiping sweat from LlewÕs brow. ÒWhat did they do to you?Ó   
Of course Nyc knew perfectly well that LlewÕs wings had been removed, but her question really involved cause, as indicated by the anger in her voice only barely suppressed by grief.  
With great effort Llewtcy spoke, voice as weak as body. ÒHe wants...to attack...Redwall...by air.Ó She lay her head down on her exposed shoulder upon finishing speaking.  
NycÕs own wings clenched irately. She needed not to ask who ÒheÓ was. But if Llew brought herself to say it, then ÒheÓ wasnÕt the point.  
Troyte clambered sympathetically over to the two bats, querying with a dipped beak, ÒRedwall?Ó  
Until this time Holdsclaw had remained decidedly indifferent; he still barely flinched in giving his information. ÒRedwallÑbig redstone abbey, karrk, south in Mossflower Country. A goodbeast stronghold, unmistakable from air. Rekk! One of my ancestors had a horde and tried to take it over once. Kra!Ó Holdsclaw seemed perversely proud of that fact.  
ÒBut he didnÕt succeed, eh?Ó Troyte interjected.  
Holdsclaw opted not to respond.  
Nyctllr remained by LlewtcyÕs side until she could no longer feel her companionÕs side rise and fall with breath. Even after this point, Nyc remained silent, closing her eyes and laying her head next to LlewÕs.  
Again, Troyte broke the silence. ÒWell, whyÕd he want to take it over if he already had free range of the whole skies?Ó  
Holdsclaw fixed a disapproving eye on Troyte. ÒKrr. ItÕs a stronghold in the Woodlander world. To control it means to own the woodlands. Arrach!Ó  
Troyte clicked his beak thoughtfully. ÒSo if thatÕs really the case, shouldnÕt we be trying to stop olÕ Nadal?Ó  
ÒFrom in here? Kchackarakka!Ó Holdsclaw scoffed.  
Eyes rimmed red with grief and rage, Nyctllr looked toward the two birds, steel in her voice. ÒWe will stop him.Ó  
Troyte began scraping his blunted beak against the mesh enclosure walls. ÒIf I can just scrape this off my beak, I think I could get through...Ó No sooner did he finish saying this than the lower part of his beak became caught between two wire links. It took him quiet some time and pulling to free himself.  
Holdsclaw again cackled in delight at the maladroit hawkÕs antics. Even he, however, was silenced by NyctllrÕs glare.  
ÒBreaking through metal and glass will do us no good,Ó Nyc stated flatly. ÒTheir point is to keep us from getting out or to kill us in the attempt. But the next time that door opens, weÕre out.Ó 


	14. I: The Twin Towers: 12

For once this project of NadalÕs was an individual effort. Usually the horde was almost bureaucratic in its function, with ob Insame getting ÒhisÓ ideas from Thadius Roth, then going through Kaliban to select a hordebeast to serve as a test dummy. All delegation of responsibility.  
Not this time, though. Nadal was exceedingly proud of his own idea, and the weasel had set it in his mind to keep this plot entirely his own mental property. He lovingly stroked his leathery bat wings, sliding his arms into straps heÕd fastened on the top, harnessing the bottom edges to his waist, slipping the fingers under the skin of the spars. So arranged, Nadal flexed experimentally. So far, everything was moving according to plan.  
Nadal had enlisted his trusty Holdsclaw to assist him only at the last moment. The two stood atop the Northern tower, an odd silhouette against the lights from below.  
ÒOnce I jump, you take off and stay directly underneath me. Understand? No more than eight feet below me. If anything happens, or if I signal, you catch me. You will catch me.Ó NadalÕs face was expressionless, but his voice alone was threat enough to make his orders undisputable.  
NadalÕs abdomen twinged as he looked down the sheer drop of his tower. For a moment the weasel feared the onset of his problems, but he dismissed that from his mind and jumped, stolen wings spread wide.  
The weasel soon relaxed in the evening air, experimenting on turning and steering, catching little eddys in the air. Yet unlike the late Raskol Nadal wasnÕt relishing the sensation of flight so much as what flying at last meant for him. Here was something that worked and even had an element of natural control to it. He could find a way to carry weapons in flight, and he could find more bats...  
Suddenly NadalÕs stomach twinged again. With the muscle spasm, NadalÕs whole body tensed and he lost control of his position. Holdsclaw caught him, just as directed.  
  
*****  
  
Holdsclaw had been completely convinced that Nyctllr and Troyte stood no chance with their escape plans. HeÕd even dared them to go through with it, assuring them that Nadal would catch them and use them for spare parts as well. Holdsclaw went so far as to tempt them by leaving the dooor unlocked after Nadal called for his assistance.  
The raven had not wagered correctly on the determination of the small.  
A batÕs echolocation is inaudible to others, so Troyte was extremely confused when Nyc seemed to be speaking and listening, despite the fact that no obvious sound was coming out. He trusted Nyc, though, and took her audible word for it that she could no longer detect Nadal and Holdsclaw.  
In the silent manner that becomes her species, Nyc eased open the door. The other captive ravens ruffled slightly as Troyte clattered through, but none awakened. With equal stealth, Nyc latched the door behind her.   
They found themselves on the roof of the Northern tower. Again Nyc echolocated, then motioned for Troyte to follow her.  
ÒUm, Nyc, one problem,Ó the hawk whispered. ÒI canÕt see much past my own beak. ItÕs too dark.Ó  
Nyc had already glided off the tower, but she returned at the hawkÕs complaint. ÒCan you see me at all?Ó  
ÒNow I can,Ó Troyte told her. ÒBut I donÕt think I could in the air. Maybe if you beat your wings particularly hard I could feel the wind in my face...Ó  
Nyc turned her head to the side, sensitive ears twitching. ÒWeÕll try.Ó She leapt. Troyte followed.  
Nyctllr was at first hesitant in her pathfinding, winging about the unfamiliar air surrounding the twin towers. Soon, though, she felt the familiar tug of a certain wind against her wings. Knowing that meant they were in the clear, Nyc called back to Troyte, ÒWeÕve found the Windburn! WeÕre off!Ó  
  
*****  
  
Oblivious to all other occurences within the towers, Thadius Roth sat in his study, gold-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose, meticulously sketching fine lines on some sort of diagram. The wax candles on his desk had dribbled all over his other papers. Of this the fox did not know, but he wouldnÕt have particularly cared either. His mind was riveted to that one sheet on which he worked.  
The dark hours waned, but in the predawn Thadius heldw an exquisitely detailed picture of a strange contraption up to the candlelight. The tip was pointed like an arrowhead, though turned on its side. Attached to this was a long flat board, with large batlike wings to either side. An inset diagram demonstrated how a creature was supposed to lay on the board, using his fingers to control the wings. Beneath each wing, as shown in another inset, was a small metal container in which a fire burned, giving extra lift to the waxed canvas wings. A final inset demonstrated how the contraption was to be set aloft via a giant bow.  
Roth wearily lay the sheet flat on his desk, then collapsed onto his cot. His tired muscles still managed to smile, however, as he drifted off to sleep with visions of certain flight in his head. 


	15. II: The West Wall: 13

_Excerpt from the writings of Sister Oxalis, Recorder of Redwall Abbey:  
  
_It is the Autumn of the Copper Beech!  
Though Nameday festivities would have occurred no matter the title, the name this time was rather hard to come by. As seasons progress, elders suggest names which, upon checking the records, have already been used somewhere back in the dust of ages. That's just what happens, I suppose, when the past is deemed legend rather than history, and therefore less attentive study is paid to it...  
Bransles, our resident hare, scoffer, windbag, and lunatic suggested that the season go down in the records as The Autumn of the Excessive Ragweed, thus named because whenever she ventured outside the cultivated grounds of the abbey she'd erupt into explosive fits of sneezing. Though original, the idea was quickly turned down on the basis that Redwall has the tradition of giving _positive_ meanings to our season names...  
Credit for the name ended up going to the young badgermaid Ustela. She is barely past dibbunhood, but is already one of our more thoughtful and intelligent beasts. No doubt she will grow into a strong but gentle leader in the future. Ah, but back to the topic at paw...  
Last autumn, traveling beasts from afar made our abbey a gift of a small tree. They told us it was called a copper beech, though at that point it more resembled a twig. It was planted in the corner between the north and west walls of the abbey, and it was very nearly forgotten. Only Ustela had watched it. She'd been sure to let us know when it got its first leaves, and other such developments. Just yesterday she noted with delight that the leaves had turned the most fantastic metallic copper hue, and what's more it will eventually reflect the sunlight from its leaves as it grows. A beautiful tree, a beautiful name, a beautiful season.  
The feast was, as always, spectacular. I could go into extensive detail about every dish, every smell, every texture; even though I age, that memory remains blissfully keen. Perhaps too keen, and that precisely is why I offer no more detail than this. It would be quite unseemly for a respectable old mouse to drool all over the abbey records.  
The festivities and antics have been as good as ever so far. Youngbeasts compete in lawn games, while elders sit and relish the soft warm air of early autumn. Our bellringers, the otter brothers Rohan and Gregory have been mooching candied chestnuts off of whoever they can—as if any creature could possibly believe that they haven't had candied chestnuts for seasons and seasons! Even Bransles wouldn't stoop to that!  
Though there is no doubt more to say, it will be left unsaid until later. Our abbey Warrior Mattachin will be performing his famous sword dance for all to see. As is the normal for his line—and he is, of course, a descendant of Matthias the Elder—he is strong but light and agile. The great blade of Redwall can serve as a deadly force or a swirling ornament in his paws depending on his mood. And regardless of that mood, even, he can only be described as showy while he's holding that sword.  
Showy, of course, is entertainment, and so I'm off to watch!  
  
—Sis. Oxalis, Rec'dr 


	16. II: The West Wall: 14

The quarry snakes were gone. When Matthias had done away with Asmodeus, that had only been the beginning of the solution, but over the series of following seasons many a warrior made it a specific point to find a snake in the area and eradicate it. That almost became a ritual, but it ended with the snake problem essentially going extinct.  
Which is why such nonmilitant beasts as Amos Stickley and the hedgehog and Gabbro the mole could head to the quarry without needs for special defenses. The two each had long family ties to Redwall and natural ties to the earth. These criteria made Amos and Gabbro the logical heads of the Redwall Abbey Renovation Committee. Again over the seasons the Abbey itself had become sonewhat worn down from the original. The committee therefore wished to make renovations using material from the primary source.  
The foundations were still sound, but weathering against the outer faces of the Abbey was the main issue. The West Wall in particualar had been eroded, battered by more intense wind and precipitation that had faced the other walls. Several of the sculptures along the western wall had been melted down to no particular form and needed to be redone, for the sake of maintaining good old times. Finally, there was damage from various ancient attacks that, while historic, now only threatened to become a structural weakness.  
But the West Wall would come first. The plan was to replace the uppermost layer of bricks on the rampart wall, for aesthetic improvement more than anything else. Therefore mole and hedgehog worked with precise movements, tracing chalked lines along the quarry of red sandstone, using careful chipping and chiseling in time-honored practice to break the rock in a neat planar fracture.  
An airborne sliver of rock nearly struck the Sparra warrior that glided down to perch between Amos and Gabbro. Unnoticed at first, the bird clicked its beak with much agitation until it was finally acknowledged.  
Gabbro's dark features crinkled into a smile, the creases highlighted by the rock dust in his fur. Whoi hullo, zurr Nuthead.  
The Sparra nodded fiercely, now swerving his beak upward. Nuthead see-um flyworms in the sky. Verystrange flyworms.  
Amos Stickley twanged a headspike. Yeh saw flyin' worms? That's definnilly strange.  
Sparra Warrior no makeup thingss, Nuthead snapped back.  
Digging claws gently patting Amos' spikes, Gabbro translated. Ee saw floyin' things, burr aye. And ee doan't know whut koind.  
Amos nodded slowly. One dialect isn't much improvement over another when neither one is your own. Yeh think they're dangerous? What'd they want with the mining likes of us?  
Thissa Sparra dunna know, Nuthead retorted, shifting his weight from firm feet to foreclaws. Butta warrior needsto make anythreat nothreat.  
Doan't get ahead of yoreself naow, Gabbro cautioned. Doan't start unnything big, hurr.  
Nuthead lifted off with a rustle of feathers. Quiet, moleworm, you quiet. Thissa Sparra knows whattodo. And he darted off.  
Amos twanged a spike again, then resumed plotting out blocks on the sandstone ledge. Well, that tweren't anythin' but peculiar.


	17. II: The West Wall: 15

A common problem in society is that most beasts hold on to good things for too long, at which point those good things go sour and devastate the creature's purposes. Nyctllr, however, knew of this historical facet. It was under that reason that Nyc deliberately extracted herself from the Windburn's path after some length of coasting above unfamiliar territory.  
Troyte followed reluctantly, watching the path of treetops disturbed by the constant wind. What was that for? It was going so nicely, and we don't seem to be at any distinguishable red building. If it had been anatomically possible for Troyte to have crossed his wings, he would have done so. What good is this going to do us?  
Nyc assured Troyte, are an overgrown baby. I have no idea where Redwall is, or whether or not the Windburn goes there.  
So we're going to find it any better by having to think and fly at once? If Troyte's beak had the capability to frown, he would have done that as well.  
Nyc, however, was perfectly capable of scowling, and that she did. You're wasting your energy complaining. If I can fly during daylight, you can certainly do this. With a broad swoop of her wings, Nyc pulled herself back aloft.  
Troyte rustled up to follow her, but before he'd reached the treetops something whacked him squarely on the beak. Hey! What in blazes was that for?!  
Nyc turned back, utter confusion on her face. I didn't...  
She too shut up as a peculiar creature crawled out noiselessly onto a treebranch between herself and Troyte. The creature was vaguely musteline, and clad in various gauzes of forest shades. The contours of its face weren't distinguishable as either gender, but as the voice slipped out from the strangely serenely smiling mouth, Nyc and Troyte assumed that was the proper pronoun for the creature. You traverse these regions to the crimson quadrangle, no?  
Nyc and Troyte exchanged puzzled stares. What? Who are you?  
The creature slipped into a well-balanced crouch on the branch. Raglé I am, Raglé the Enigma I am. This plot of land, this lichen bloom is my cartography, in the storage of my synapses. Hearken, hearken to me and need you not trailblaze.  
Nyc and Troyte could only repeat themselves.   
Raglé turned her head to the side. Auralized your directive, I did. You seek the crimson quadrangle, to which you not long arrive. Sail the river, airriver not mossriver. The destination is precognitive, the implementation elementary.  
  
But Raglé appeared to be done with her message, upon which she dematerialized into the trees.  
That. Made. No. Sense, Troyte stated clearly.  
That's a valid complaint, Nyc agreed. Let's...um...just keep going as we were...  
Even Troyte seemed somewhat repressed after that encounter.  
Bat and hawk resumed flying, only to be stopped again by another poke.  
Troyte snapped before he turned, Make it clear this time!e  
Sparra always clear, hawkworm. You come-a with Nuthead.  
Troyte spluttered disbelievingly, bewilderment changing to amusement. Calling yourself a nuthead is no way to be fearsome!  
Nuthead, however, was no Raglé. His seriousness was not mystical, but grim. Come-a with Nuthead, flyworms.


	18. II: The West Wall: 16

Amos Stickley and Gabbro were more easily convinced of Nyctllr and Troyte's purposes than Nuthead was. The Sparra's stubborn instincts would never let him consider that an usnusually clumsy hawk and a peculiarly diurnal bat really were travelers with a direction that they didn't know how to reach. Mole and hedgehog, however, were completely convinced of their innocence for exactly the same factors.  
When Nyc attempted to recall Raglé's word for word, she failed miserably. The gist of the confusion, though, was very evident. Amos Stickley, after a great deal of thoughtful headspike-twanging, eventually offered the following advice: Jest ignore that Enigma beast. Jest foller us and ye'll get teh Redwall. Ye shoulda asked us first.  
The distance actually was quite small. Nyc and Troyte could have actually walked it alongside Gabbro and Amos without becoming tired. But had they done that their first view of Redwall's grandeur would have been from the standard terrestrial perspective. From the air the Abbey was a colossal red square surrounded by lush green foliage. The outer wall ringed the inner building, the architectural structures of which splayed out as if in a contour drawing. They could see so much more than that from above, though. They saw Redwall the fortress, the community, the historical site, and alas, the target.  
You have to get us to whoever's in charge, Nyc demanded urgently as she flew through the gates.  
No take batworm to mouseworm leader! Up to nogood! Nuthead stared Nyc right in the face.  
Troyte stared right back down at the smaller bird, which silenced him at least momentarily.  
Gabbro tugged at his snout. I carn bring youm to zurr Foremoler.  
Nyc looked up around the Great Hall, expression only becoming more urgent as she took in the details of the room. But can your Foremole set up sufficient military defenses for an air attack?  
With that Nuthead shot out from under Troyte's gaze in an irate spasm. Nuthead nolike the sound of that, batworm. Gonna get mouseworm warrior, get you out plentyquick.  
Gabbro slowly turned his head, regarding Nuthead and then Nyc. He'm no Wurrier. Maoibe zurr Abbot—  
Amos cut him off. Attack by air? Yeh said summat about an attack by air? His spikes bristled in alarm.  
Nyc nodded solemnly, but Troyte picked up from her, having absorbed some hysteria from Amos and Nuthead. Yes, yes! They've captured innocent creatures in two huge towers and they're enslaving and killing those creatures so they can use them to fly and go on the wind and swoop down from the sky and take Redwall completely unexpectedly! Amazingly, he did not breathe throughout this entire statement.  
You're doing...what?  
All present looked up to see a hard-eyed mouse with a midwinter-sharp sword.  
Not us, Nyc returned, voice firm but eyes following the path of the magnificent sword. A weasel called Nadal ob Insame. His fortress is two identical towers, out far from here, above a cliff between the mountains and the sea. He's trying to make a flying machine to take over Redwall. You can believe me. You have to believe me!  
The mouse retained his pose a moment longer, then snapped back with a dismissive puff of breath. That's nonsense.  
How can you be so sure? Nyc seemed offended by the statement.  
I'm not the Abbey Warrior for no reason, the mouse replied coldly. Threat has forewarning and foreboding. This doesn't.  
Nyc glared. _I'm_ warning you!  
And how can I believe you? This is wasting my time. And the mouse was off.


	19. II: The West Wall: 17

It would only be logical to assume that when a bizarre rumor is mentioned within a densely-populated community it will spread like wildfire or disease. Nyctllr, though certainly no gossip, was counting on this effect to spread her news through Redwall. Which is why she was all the more depressed to not hear a word of it from any creature at all the next day. Apparently Amos and Gabbro hadn't quite comprehended the warning enough to deal with it. Nuthead had obviously never trusted Nyctllr or Troyte enough to take any of their words as fact. And true to his initial actions, the Abbey Warrior had made the issue a complete non-issue.  
Bransles the hare and Rohan and Gregory the otters had readily accepted Troyte into their area of the abbey—that is, joking about, eating, and generally getting in the way. If her message had actually gone anywhere, Nyctllr would have certainly been beating the hawk over the head for being a goof-off, but now that she was in need of a new idea of how to spread the news, she didn't want to be a hypocrite and disturb the hawk from his socialization.  
In a state of deep despair Nyctlltr ascended the abbey stairs on foot, her wings hanging limply at her sides. She knew not and cared not where the stairs led or how many there were. In fact, she was rather enjoying the length of the walk, as it gave her more time to think, with a little time to wallow in misery on the side.  
Nyc wasn't sure of the sobbing noises she heard as she finally reached the final tier of stairs was her own or not, but as she lightly padded into the attic room she realized she wasn't being quite so open with her own emotions. Curled up fetally in an ancient plush armchair was a young female badger. Her eyes were screwed shut and welling tears.  
Some deep instinct within Nyctllr—perhaps stemming from the interconnectedness of bat colonies—caused her to approach the badger. Did...something happen?  
The badgermaid looked up, surprised ringed with red from crying. Nothing happened. At least not yet. She shuddered.  
Nyc suddenly seemed oddly hopeful. What do you mean?  
The badger convulsede again, then attempted to compose herself. I...I had a terrible dream. There was smoke and fire throughout Redwall, and creatures were running and screaming. And there was a mouse with a sword, our Martin, and he was explaining and giving advice and nobeast would listen to him... She paused, gulping at the air. And so many died...  
A haunted look passed through Nyc's eyes. You dreamed that? she murmured. Louder, she noted darkly, When I spoke with your swordsmouse, he ignored my every word. Sounds like this Martin has mood swings.   
The badger's eyes widened. Martin came to your dreams, too?  
Dreams? No, I spoke to a warrior mouse in the flesh yesterday. But he seemed too thick to be a reall warrior. Nyc was clearly bitter.  
No, that was Mattachin, the badger explained, slightly more at ease. He's our current Warrior. Martin's our founder. I'm Ustela. Who are you?  
Nyc extended a wingsail in greeting, which somewhat puzzled Ustela. Nyctllr. Or even just Nyc. Pleased to meet you.  
I'm glad you don't ignore me, like they did in the dream.  
Folding a sail over Ustela's shoulder, Nyc attempted a sympathetic smile. As much as I hate to push it, I think you need to share your dream with some other beasts more important than I...  
  


*****  
  


Nuthead had been terrified of the wrong dark flying shapes. While he was still in Redwall and being suspicious of Nyctllr and Troyte, the dark shadows of a fleet of giant winged fire arrows glided over the treetops of Mossflower.


	20. II: The West Wall: 18

Early mornings in autumn are an excellent time for working outdoors. The temperature and light is soothing, easy on the mind and the body. The gentle backlight illuminated the edge of the West Wall as Gabbro and Amos Stickley carefully eased the old bricks off the top of the rampart. Each ancient stone would be kept within the Abbey as an artifact. Thus their eyes focused on the preservation of said blocks, and not on what was above them.  
Mole and hedgehog were never quite able to figure out what the veritable wall of flighted _things_ that appeared above the wall that was supposed to be there was. And as they ran they did not look back to see which wall persisted.  
  


*****  
  


The kitchen of Redwall is always the first room to come to life in the morning. Friar Millet the dormouse had been bustling about for a good hour before any of the other abbeydwellers even stirred, so that his trademark wheat scones could be ready when the first hungry mouths showed up to be fed.  
Millet nearly sliced his paw as opposed to the apple he held as a loud explosion rocked his kitchen. In a tizzy about the state of his scones the dormouse bustled to investigate. It did not take a very detailed or thorough investigation to deduce that the flames which suddenly engulfed the back of the kitchen were not caused by an oven malfunction.  
  


*****  
  


Otters are used to sudden alterations in watter current, and birds are accustomed to the same jostling effect from the air. Hares, however, are only acclimated to bumps caused by their own leaps. Bransles was jerked from her after-meal slumber, and as she considered it, quite rudely so. Ears twitching moodily, Bransles harrumphed and rolled back onto her side. She was fully determined to fall back asleep, but her harrumph told her more than she bargained for.  
Wide awake with one twitch of her nostrils, Bransles grabbed Rohan and Gregory by the shoulders, shaking the two otters awake. I say, do you smell bally smoke, wot?  
As if one unit, Rohan and Gregory concertedly flared their whiskers. Uh...dunno...roight, yes, we surpose... The twins' words melded together as well.  
You don't suppose it's them bally scones again? Bransles sniffed in irritation.  
Could be, aye, very well could be. We could split up an' search, eh matey, y'know, an see what it is. Aye, hate ter lose a brekkist...  
The two otters started toward each other, then in opposite directions. Bransles stopped them before they could change their minds again. But we can get a top hole bird's eye view now, wot. And for the third time in two days, Troyte was thwacked across the beak.  
From the instant his amber eyes opened, Troyte's pupils were the tiniest of alarmed dots. Get out! GET OUT!  
  


*****  
  


Following an unusually bad summer for nasty encounters with pikes, the Redwall Infirmary was up to its occupation limit. Beds were full and nurses were running shifts of many hours with no sleep. Perhaps that's why when the nurse attending saw the dark airfleet out of the infirmary window she assumed it was a hallucination caused by lack of sleep.  
The jarring collision that rocked the Abbey to its very foundation, as well as the sheet of flame that shot past the open Infirmary window could have been no mirage. Fire reflected in her wide eyes, the nurse summoned strength she did not know was within her to help the worst cases down the stairs. Some of the less critical patients attempted to follow her. Others, seeing less hope, made straight for the open window.  
  


*****  
  


Mattachin slept uneasily, in a constant cycle of falling dreams with no landing, through a tunnel of ceaseless ridicule and accusations of incompetence. The magnificent Sword of Redwall kept hovering just out of reach from his forepaws, the gleaming red pommel stone taunting him; whenever he grew even remotely close enough to stand a chance at recovering the weapon, the blade only nicked at his fingers.  
It's said that if one feels an impact in a falling dream, then that person has died in his sleep. When Mattachin awoke after the crash, he knew immediately that the final sensation had been real. The Abbey Warrior rolled off his bed and grabbed the sword, holding it between vicelike forepaws. His weapon and symbol thus secure, Mattachn ran until he was clear of the Abbey building.  
  


*****  
  


Nyctllr and Ustela had not been able to even attempt sleep. Their efforts to seek authority had been in vain, and the anxiety that permeated their conscious and subconscious entities prevented them from combatting their exhaustion. In the end there was simply nothing they could do. In the predawn hours bat and badger left the Abbey, watching the sky for armageddon.


	21. II: The West Wall: 19

The scene was like something out of fiction—horror or alternative history in particular. A sheet of flame rose up between two of a severed stone wall. Rubble littered the ground and smoke obscured the backdrop. And through it all, the visual and audible marks of panicked creatures—silhouettes darting through the fire and anguished screams mingling with the repeated crackling of explosions. Some examples of these signs persisted, while others were clearly cut short.  
Redwallers fled as they could, but entirely avoiding the inferno that raged around the western part of the Abbeywas next to impossible. In the state of physical possibility that only comes in the face of death, many of the common Abbeybeasts were able to burst through the flames with only minor singes to their fur. And others outdid even that. Old asthmatic Sister Oxalis the Recorder dashed from her gatehouse quarters to a place where the smoke could no longer asphyxiate her lungs. Badger Mother Marne was able to carry a half-dozen dibbuns at once out from the wreckage, and she kept going back in for more of them, her motherly explanation of the crisis that the kitchen was indeed the problem. The cellarkeepers were able to push any barrels of alcoholic drink to the side of the Abbey opposite the impact site to prevent the flammable liquids from igniting—all this before their own escapes.  
There were some that stayed within the Abbey grounds, deliberately. The otters Rohan and Gregory showed no aspects of their light demeanors and twinnish buffoonery as they worked. They were designed to operate in an aquatic environment, but now they had to bring the water out into the terrestrial sphere; they did all in their power to bring the contents of the Abbey pond out to combat the raging flames. Bransles the hare, along with others of her species, were naturally more suited to land. Utilizing the springpower of massive muscled hindlegs, Bransles and her squadron of hares kicked showers of dirt from the ground to the wall, with the hopes that the raw earth would be stifling enough. Via air the Sparra fought as always, working with assembly-line efficiency to release clumps of moist forest subfloor from within the cloud of smoke above. To stamp out and blot out in one blow. The flames sputtered under the barrage as the firefighters sputtered from the flame. A different sort of vicious circle.  
Most Redwallers, however, simply ran. After their lives are gone and their first-person tales with them, history books will undoubtedly regard them as nothing but terror-stricken, nothing but cowards while others did so much more to fight back. That's a hypocritical recorder, right there. Most who write of history from a distance have no firstpaw part in _anything_ interesting, and thus they have no right to be critics. Can anyone blame those poor beasts who ran? Would you not do the same if the building which was more than a mere building to you—which was the world to you—was suddenly and unexplainably ringed in flame?  
They ran out into the forest, into the depths of Mossflower which were normally only traversed if there was no other option. And nobeast thought of that, of the perils well cautioned against and the warnings not to go there. The world was burning, coming down around them, inconceivable after contemplation and even more so before one has time to contemplate anything. They ran for their lives, and for denial, out into the deep, dark, and cool woods, the woods with their own wild atmosphere, out through them until the smoke no longer twinged their nostrils and a sickly bright orange glow no longer silhouetted the trees.


	22. II: The West Wall: 20

In the end the weather smothered the flames. The Redwallers fought the blaze all day and into the night. As the daylight faded the weather shifted as a cold front approached. It was heralded initially by cold winds, which only stirred up the fire further. The firefighters of course felt doomed by this intervention of nature, but the whipping wind was shortly replaced by a gentle autumn rain, so contradictory in character to the rest of the day. A relieving contradiction.  
Unsettling, however, was the view as the rain washed out the smoke. The entire West Wall of the Abbey had been dislodged. It had not, however, been entirely blown out. The vast section sagged downward and outward. The bricks were smashed and crumpled, the ornamented edges ripped into jagged asymmetrical rockslides. The bared edges of the wall that remained upright were burnt black, their endplanes sharp and treacherous rock faces, parts of which had even been twisted and bent by the persistant heat of the blaze. Part of the main Abbey wall had been demolished as well, its foundation and framework sticking out like a skeleton. The parts that were still standing were pitted and charred; in the dark that section maintained the illusion of being nonexistant as well, as whatever light was present caught on the diagonal heap of the former West Wall.  
Redwall Abbey—a square with three sides.  
Entirely robbed of their senses of humor for the time being, Bransles, Rohan, Gregory, and the other firefighters forced their red-rimmed eyes to stay open as they followed the clearly trampled route of the fleeing Redwallers through Mossflower. All were ghostly silent, and explainably so. Dark Forest Gates could not have possibly looked any more frightening than the former West Wall of Redwall Abbey did. The rain persisted as they trekked. There was no clear way to tell if the moist tracks cut through the ash caked on their fur was rainwater or tears.  
The general population of the Abbey had congregated in a clearing not far from the River Moss. Though the noise of the rain did echo about and would have muffled most noises anyway, it was painfully clear that the entire group—normally a bustling community of conversation—was silent.   
The Sword of Martin the Warrior still clenched tightly in his paws, Mattachin approached the returning heroes. All stared stonefaced at each other for quite some time, knowing that they had important messages, but at the same time unable to comprehend, incapable of realizing or making sense of what needed to be said.  
Mattachin finally broke the silence. The fire...Is it out?  
Rohan nodded solemnly, his neck moving creakily. Gregory responded verbally, his voice dry and seemingly unpracticed. Aye...But you'll...need t' see... He scrunched up his forehead and averted his eyes.  
Her long ears further shadowing her already half-lidded eyes, Bransles felt a duty to ask a question that in any other situation woulde only be considered morbid. Who's still alive? Who's dead?  
There's not an exact count yet, Mattachin explained, whiskers twitching slightly. Nobody's wanted to count yet. I'll start...soon.  
Bransles bit her lower lip. Anybeast...y'know, prominent?  
Mattachin turned his head slightly. To follow his line of sight, one's gaze would fall upon the furred hulk of a lifeless creature on its side in the damp leaves. Badger Mother Marne had managed to clear ground zero with her full cargo of dibbuns, her strong frame fully capable of the effort. As Badgermum, Marne had carted dibbuns around constantly. She'd been built for it, practically. Her lungs, however, were not accustomed to an ashy atmosphere. The dust and smoke gradually clogged the small airsacs in the linings of her lungs. She reached camp, lay down to sleep, and the weight of the deposits prevented her lungs from reinflating. She died without ever knowing.  
Any others? Bransles did not look up as she spoke; she was concentrating on clearing the ash from Marne's still face.  
I haven't seen Friar Millet, Mattachin considered. He sighed heavily. The kitchens were on the west side...  
That's all? Bransles wasn't able to manage even a relieved _wot_. Such an ill-fitting word. Have you spoken with the Abbot? He needs to see...  
Mattachin's eyes widened, and he gripped the sword so tightly that his entire forepaws went white. His claws dug into the black binding of the hilt. The Abbot! The warrior mouse inhaled sharply and then realized what his expression looked like. His facial muscles went rigid as he attempted to control them. I think...I know where he is. Mattachin darted off into the woods.  
The Warrior of Redwall is there to be a protector, and the Abbot is a leader, of course. It only makes sense that the quarters of the two would be essentially adjacent. Mattachin had apparently forgotten this fact as he fled the Abbey with his sword. In his terror he had left his purpose in his abandoned room, next door to the old Abbot, the mole who was reknowned for his evenpawed leadership, not to mention his snoring loudly through impenetrable sleep.  
As he came upon Redwall, Mattachin fell into physical pain as he simply beheld the collapsed wall. And to contemplate the odds of survival for one still inside...  
Finally sheathing the great sword, Mattachin padded up to the former wall.  
There were some living creatures already present, a young bat and a small badgermaid, sifting through the rubble with mixed expressions of devastation and hope.  
Mattachin placed a cold and shaking paw on Nyctllr's wing. I should have listened to you!


	23. II: The West Wall: 21

_Excerpt from the writings of Sister Oxalis, Recorder of Redwall Abbey:  
  
_ As the rain has beaten out the smoke and the sun has returned to the skies of Mossflower, the sight that becomes clear to the citizens of Redwall is incomprehensible, inconceivable. _The wall is not there._  
Two days ago, on the eleventh day of the Autumn of the Copper Beech, some unknown flying weapon struck the western wall of the Abbey. No flighted creature could inflict such damage, and there is therefore no question that this action was intentional. But why and from where? The summer was peaceful, with no vermin in sight...These things don't make sense. I don't know why I'm trying to make sense of it. That can't be done.  
The outer West Wall of Redwall Abbey is entirely demolished. The inner wall has sustained considerable damage. Everything between the two has been destroyed, including the very tree for which the season was named. Thus these unknown attackers have ruined everything with this one blow, down to the name of the season. Season names don't change; they're untouchable. So we thought. But then again, we thought the same thing about Redwall itself...  
The extent of the casualties is yet unknown. Our moles have offered to dig through the rubble for dead, but it is perfectly understandable to our weary hearts that they cannot take care of all of this at once. We do know, however, that our Badger Mother and our Abbot are among the dead, an irreplaceable loss that requires a different sort of recovery than the physical damage does.  
Our Abbey Warrior Mattachin has taken charge of our group, heading and delegating rescue and healing effort. He has proclaimed that we should amend events, not dwell on them.  
I feel no strength to write more on this, regardless.  
  


—Sis. Oxalis, Rec'dr


	24. II: The West Wall: 22

Though Mattachin had recognized a need to listen, he didn't want to do so just yet. In fact, nobeast out of the whole population of Redwall was feeling quite up to the challenge of listening to the incomprehensible emotional events of late explained as cold hard facts. They had their reasons, many of which fought with the prospect of rational interpretation in their minds.  
Nyctllr didn't think of her inside knowledge as detached. While the Redwallers moped in a haze of black despair, Nyc brooded in a state of disquiet urgency that was comparable in hue. If they didn't take the time to listen soon, their own morbid fantasies and tales about what _must_ have caused this all would take all mental space for consideration of the matter. As a bat, a colonial organism, Nyc knew full well how large groups reacted to big things. If she wasn't able to get her say in, they'd retaliate against fictional elements, and the situation would only deteriorate.  
The refugees returned to the damaged Abbey the day after the flames were affirmedly quelled. The return march moved to a cadence of dread, only to be halted at the gates by a blast of horrible realization. would only begin to describe the manner in which each and every Redwaller regarded the former West Wall. Moving everybeast back inside took nearly as long as it took the head of the returning column to arive from the refuge in the woods.  
The crews of able-bodied creatures that had worked to stifle the fire immediately began constructing a barrier with all available objects, for the express purpose of preventing losing any more lives to the disaster zone. Thus the kitchens, the library, the guest quarters, and several other small areas were denied occupancy, but nobeast felt the library necessary at such a time, no guests could be expected after such a disturbance, and the pantry was still accessible. They could make do.  
An attempt to rest after such sleepless uncertainty was the immediate procedure. Many creatures slept long and hard, though not without the presence of troubling dreams. Physical exhaustion was, at least, countered. The following day, in the absence of both Badger Mother and Father Abbot, Mattachin called an assembly of Abbeybeasts, to be held on the eastern end of the Great Hall. Despite the fact that the Warrior mouse sat at the northern head of the table, most eyes faced west.  
We are not going to let this setback be evident for long, Mattachin began. His voice held a harsh quality that comes only from lack of extensive use. Nobody can see Redwall with a broken wall. That's not only a deadly weakness, but it's against our very name. Nobody can see that. I won't let anybody else see that. With this loss, it's my duty to take charge. So I did. We're going to fix this place, and we're never going to let something like this happen again! And all as soon as possible!  
Slowly, uncertainly, but eventually the assembled creatures applauded their warrior. Troyte clacked his beak, however, in disagreement. You missed something. Well, two things really.  
The noise petered off to allow the hawk's voice through. First of all, what about a monument? Creatures died. We shouldn't hide _everything _and cover that up, too. And second, Nyc told me that you'd let her talk...  
Mattachin regarded Troyte skeptically, wetting his lips as he sought the proper response out of all that cluttered his busy mind. Redwall is its own monument! He sounded definitive there, but he said no more.  
In the following lull, Nyctllr stood, her tone softer but somehow stronger than that of the Warrior. I don't know what happened, but I know who and why. Nobeast listened to me before when I said that, but you can't make anything of information if you don't listen to it first.  
There were no interruptions.


	25. II: The West Wall: 23

Nobody seemed to have heard of Nadal ob Insame. Nobody remembered seeing any towers that breached the cloud layer, let alone two such towers together. In fact, none of the Redwallers seemed to have any knowledge whatsoever of the region that Nyc and Troyte described from aerial and terrestrial viewpoints. The resultant impasse was troubling on many levels.  
Nyctllr was extremely discomfited by the fact that there was no understanding, no prior knowledge, not even an inkling of her plight—and of course others' plight as well. They couldn't imagine an airborne villain, taking some lives for the purpose of killing more out of the blue.  
The Redwallers, of course, were alarmed that something so apparently out of the picture could do so much harm.  
Mattachin irritably nicked at his claws with Martin's sword. I could have sworn that that rat who we went after when my father was the warrior was the mastermind...wossisname...Kaliban...  
Nyc literally lifted off toward Mattachin as her hypersensitive hearing picked up this remark. Kaliban's in on it. He's terrified of ob Insame, but he's in. He does what he's told. He might have been working for Nadal all along.  
The warrior mouse's grip on the sword of Redwall tightened; the tip of the blade pointed directly west. We're going _now_.  
As much as Nyc was anxious to rid the world of the problem that was Nadal ob Insame, she couldn't help but be cautionary. As you don't know the area, don't you think working out directions and strategy first might be a good idea?  
You're giving the directions, Mattachin stated firmly. And we can make up a battle plan on the march.   
You're not going to come upon a fortress that's easily attacked, Nyc explained. And they fly off the tops of those towers. They could hit again while we're gone.  
Mattachin's eyes quickly skimmed across the faces of those he, as Warrior, had sworn to protect. They wouldn't dare try to do that to us again.  
I know Nadal. You don't. Don't take anything for granted. Nyc rustled her wings.  
Fine, fine. Mattachin did some quick calculations on his fingers. Just to be safe. Because, his voice rose and he lifted the sword, drawing the attention of the entire assembly once more, We're going to war!  
The reaction was mixed. A few sundry cheers punctuated a general body of excited murmuring. The normally softspoken voice of Sister Oxalis made a clear point over the aural mess. But Redwall Abbey is a place of peace. We can't go be an aggressor after such a history.  
If anybeast had at that moment attempted to prevent Mattachin from making a speech, that creature would have failed. The warrior mouse stood on his chair, waving the sword for emphasis. Redwall is only peaceful until that peace is disrupted, and that definitely happened! If we let it go, we'd let the vermin win! And that would be allowing the access of evil to all Redwall has ever been! Wouldn't you feel bad if we let that happen, wouldn't you feel terrible?! You don't have to feel bad, though, because we're going to eliminate the threat! Knocking down one wall won't kill us all, but our vengeance is more than justified for it. Redwall is good, Redwall is proud, and nobeast messes with Redwall and gets away with it! We're going to war! We're going to win! What say you?!  
A loud speaking voice with an apparent cause has the ability to rouse a crowd, regardless of how closely the individuals within that crowd might have actually been listening. But the Abbeybeasts _were_ listening. And they knew their response:  



	26. II: The West Wall: 24

Sister Oxalis' concerns were placated for the time being. In his hasty organization, Mattachin had placed the elderly recorder on part of the committee to remain home and help keep the abbey safe and secure in the absence of fighting beasts. Though Oxalis still was far from a supporter of the general actions that were taking place, protection of her home Abbey was something she wouldn't have been able to turn down in good morals. Between her official records and personal musings, Oxalis had often perused the older chronicles of the Abbey. Though she outwardly felt herself to be too old to be truly active, the idea of following the purposes of Constance, Cornflower, May, and others pleased her immensely.  
The security committee was a small one, but select, able, and intelligent enough. It had no appointed leader—decisions were to be discussed and made as a panel, and to be implemented if necessary by all remaining occupants of the Abbey. Its most prominent members were Oxalis, Rohan, Gregory, and Ustela, all of whom were ready to disregard outer impediments of old age, buffoonery, and youth to do what needed to be done. To them it wasn't about vengeance, but rather about maintaining life as it was before.  
  


*****  
  


Gabbro and Amos Stickley were gathering stones again. The mole and the hedgehog had been maintenance beasts all along; whether or not they'd said a word on the matter either way, they would have been to head the rebuilding effort.  
Their team consisted primarily of moles, sensible workers set to do whatever job was presented to them. There were, however, beasts of other species assisting in the effort, and from them came no small stream of input on how perhaps something different than just a flat wall should be built in the gap on the western side of the Abbey. They argued that something should be done in remembrance, so that it all wasn't obscured indeed. Gabbro and Amos didn't want to deal with such a discussion or decision. Their word, in accordance with Mattachin's, was that the wall was to be rebuilt just as a wall. The monument would come later. The decision on such a thing, after all, belonged to the entire population of Redwall.  
And there was also the issue that inevitably more creatures would die from this.  
So for the time being, Amos and Gabbro were collecting stones again. Their crews were salvaging what pieces of red sandstone they could still use from the wreckage of the original wall, as well as making trips to the quarry for fresh blocks. They'd just been doing that same thing less than a week before. Whereas then they couldn't imagine the events of the following week, at this point everything before the attack seemed surreal.  
  


*****  
  


Mattachin wouldn't have admitted it to any living creature, but he was excited about this war. His father had had a war, as had all of the well-known Warriors of the past that he could recall. In Mattachin's mind, a Warrior without a war was nothing. Furthermore, regardless of previous peacetime activity and leadership potential, the war made the Warrior. Not the sword, not the disembodied voices of past heroes, but the war. As far as Mattachin could tell, a war meant instant approval.  
So far, Mattachin's theory was proving to be true. The mouse was quite excited by the devoted attention that he was receiving, by the fact that all of his statements were regarded as final, how all of his orders were followed exactly, down to the punctuation. With that sort of following, Mattachin could get whatever he wanted done done.  
Of course the events of the past week that led up to this conclusion upset him. If they hadn't, he wouldn't have found the momentum within himself that he was displaying now. It wouldn't have even occurred to him to look for that momentum. But this whole ordeal meant a lot to him, for various personal and professional reasons.  
The army had been supplemented by local groups of shrews and Sparra. The officers, however, were Redwallers. Their personal connection to the attacks filled them with a certain retaliatory instinct that transferred to a level of aggression that Mattachin found encouraging. He loved looking back from his position at the head of the marching column. In reading the expressions on his followers' faces, Mattachin knew well that no holds would be barred to eliminate evildoers from the world.  


  
*****  
  


Nyctllr walked. Something about the idea of flying back to Nadal ob Insame's twin towers troubled her deeply. And so she walked, keeping pace with the army, relaying Troyte's aerial instructions to Mattachin.  
The bat did not deny her fear. Walking wasn't bothering her. Being awake and active in the daytime was tolerable. Just the idea of returning to that ill-fated place...  
Nyc was already trembling slightly. She knew that the tremor would only increase as the towers crept into view. She fully expected a cold sickly sweat to be running down her wingsails before long. She accepted that. She was going so it would all be resolved.


	27. III: The Flight and the Fallen: 25

It requires a certain level of self-control and a significant measure of talent to not be anxious when waiting for something important. Yet it requires those qualities to an even greater extent in order to be anxious but not show it. Nadal ob Insame was one of those rare beasts in that second category.  
The weasel was clearly waiting for _something_—even more than usual he sat in his uppermost south tower office, hard cold eyes searching for something in the air beyond the windowpane. He knew precisely what he wanted to hear and he knew that he wanted to hear it as soon as possible. He nevertheless conducted business as usual. The only hint as to Nadal's anxiety was that anybeast overheard mentioning the mission was automatically dismissed from the commander's presence and regard.  
Though the earlier stages of ob Insame's project could only be considered reckless, action at this point took on a practically exaggerated degree of caution. While hordebeast lives were perfectly expendable in the name of mechanical testing, doing too much too soon after the initial attack could be ruinous.   
Not to mention that the flying machines were quite a labor to build—expensive in time and in resources. Thadius Roth's design for the contraption was something Nadal would never admit he'd wished he'd personally developed. As are many of the most brilliant inventions, this one was a combination of many simpler machines. While Nadal had only been enraged by earlier failed attempts at flight, Roth had kept careful note of each trial, and he had, as a true researcher does, taken everything from those trials into account.  
The body of the machine was nothing more than an immense arrow of lightweight wood and sharpened steel, engineered to fit the bow used previously. The same jetblack feathering adorned the back also as previously, but two more appendages branched from near the hollowed-out seat in the middle of the fuselage. Made of oiled canvas stretched over steel rods, they resembled a bat's wings in their sectioned structure and in the way which they were attached to the shaft of the arrow. Using several levers the creature flying the device would be able to control the tilt and the spread of those wings to catch the wind currents and counter the natural parabolic path of an arrow from a bow. Yet Roth didn't leave anything about that law of physics to chance. As a precaution, oil lamps were installed carefully under each wing, the heat from which would provide extra lift to the canvas if necessary.  
The things had flown sure enough, out of immediate recovery range anyhow. Nadal just needed to know if that extra distance was distance enough...   
Kaliban and Holdsclaw had been sent under order of extreme caution to investigate the outcome. The eventual return to the towers was equally apprehensive. Dismounting onto the south tower roof, Kaliban had no idea what his news would mean to his leader. Sir? The wall is down.   
Nadal blinked expressionlessly.   
Knocked clean down an' blown apart, sir, Kaliban confirmed.  
How could that be? the weasel mused inwardly. The intent was to get inside and attack from there. Ah, I'll speak with Roth about that. But...entirely down? What sort of losses?  
The rat shrugged ignorantly, then wrinkled his brow. Not sure exactly, but it musta been lots. One whole wall was _down_.  
Kra...it rreaked of death, Holdsclaw contributed.  
So long as their losses were high, Nadal reasoned, the new new outcome is as good as the planned. Perhaps better. Now go and select more flyers for the second wall.


	28. III: The Flight and the Fallen: 26

Thadius Roth had pushed aside his graph paper and blueprints for the time being. The fox hunched over his workstation benck, sketching animal heads of different species at different angles, an artistic study of facial structure and expression. Though his ability to recreate the animate in pencil hardly rivaled his skill at mechanical drawing, Thadius was certainly competent enough. And just the process of drawing pleased him. It was relaxing to draw curves for once, instead of rigid lines and angles.  
He was not off task, though he was not on task either. Until the test outcome of the latest flying machine prototype returned, there was no task to which to apply. Which is precisely why Thadius made no effort to his artistic venture when Nadal ob Insame invited himself into the fox's office.  
The weasel slipped the sketch sheet out from under the very tip of Roth's pencil and regarded it with the air of aloof contempt that comes naturally to a critic who is entirely ignorant in his field. He then proceeded to produce the flying machine blueprint from Roth's desk and placed the two back down, blueprint on top.  
You'll be building more of these, Roth, Nadal stated.  
Roth placed his pencil down and scratched behind an ear. Dare I ask, sir, is this demand due to success or...to failure?  
Nadal's expression could actually be construed to be a smile. Success. Beyond expected.  
Thadius relaxed. They flew far this time?  
Certainly far enough.   
This is huge! The normally reserved fox clapped his paws in delight. Beasts not born to fly in the air by mechanical means! And staying aloft! I can only begin to imagine what all can be done with this!  
Nadal grasped both of Thadius' excited forepaws in one of his own. Yes, far beyond imagination. A wall is down.  
Thadius ceased fidgeting on his own.  
The airships reached their goal and in addition took down a wall. ob Insame did not seem pleased about needing to make this repetition.   
Roth's paws assumed a different sort of tremor. He produced his gold-rimmed spectacles from a pocket and looked at the blueprint through them, muttering to himself. Down? A wall? Solid masonry? The arrowheads might have done something, but they certainly were not blunt enough to... He cut off momentarily, a claw landing on the image of the oil lamp below the wing. Ah, ah...The collision of the arrow with the wall would have weakened the wall some but primarily would have collapsed the arrow on itself, spreading the flaming oil over everything...Giant fire arrows, essentially. The heat and the flame took the wall down. Giant fire arrows!  
Roth removed his spectacles and regarded ob Insame with wide eyes.  
All well and good, Nadal remarked. Now build me more of them.  
The fox picked up his pencil. I can take the oil from the design. It was originally a precaution for lift, but—  
Nadal cut him off. It's good. Leave it in. That is all. He was out the door with no more said.  
For several minutes afterward, Thadius Roth's eyes darted between the oil lamp on the plan and his eraser. In weighing possibilities and repercussions, however, the fox did not bring the two together.


	29. III: The Flight and the Fallen: 27

The Redwallers were on the right track. Mattachin, however, could not help but be suspicious of this path which he'd never previously traveled. No matter how much certainty and reassurance Nyctllr and Troyte offered, Mattachin just couldn't feel certain. The bat and the hawk had made their previous journey aerially, after all.  
Mattachin did wish he could dispel his uncertainty. He knew that Nyc and Troyte wouldn't deliberately go astray in seeking their own vengeance. And he was able to deal with it well enough when considering the prospect of his war. Once he was firmly recorded in Redwall's annals as the one who stifled the furthest enemy, nobeast would ever have to know that he once doubted his own sense of direction.  
It would not be on record either that Mattachin leapt back and moved his arm as if to suck his thumb as the gauze-clad mustelid slipped down from a tree and into his path. Have you misjudged your orienteering?  
Mattachin sputtered, startled by the entrance and so baffled by the language usage that his own verbs became crossed. Who is you? What are the meaning of this?  
The creature seemed amused at the warrior mouse's error. Raglé I am. Raglé the Enigma I am. You convey directional discombobulation.  
Bewildered, seeking aid, Mattachin looked back toward Nyctllr and Troyte. Hawk and bat showed expressions of clear recognition, amused expressions that also offered the statement, You figure it out.  
Raglé turned her head to the side knowingly, questioning the warrior to proceed. Mattachin shot a frustrated glance at Nyc and Troyte. I've been told this path is clear and correct.  
To what region unblocked and forward, to where wish you arrive? Illusioned you may be, through self-assurance of destination. Where may be your coordinates? The mustelid gestured mystically at the path.  
Mattachin scowled. I don't understand a word you're saying, and until I do, I don't trust to tell you anything.  
Objective conspiratorial, motive camouflaged? Raglé waggled her eyebrows as a caricature of a beast might.  
I wouldn't tell— Mattachin halted, grasping the sword hilt, knowing he'd proven some sort of point. he assured. Who's to know you wouldn't point us right into some sort of humongous trap?  
Raglé once again regarded Nyctllr and Troyte, this time with a We know something he doesn't know! expression. They merely returned blank smiles. Raglé spoke at Mattachin, who clearly was troubled by this nonverbal exchange. Entrapment? Cage? Snare? Logical is that premonition, warrantable that trepidation!  
You're _telling_ me that you're pointing us at a trap? That's a sure way to mess with a mind, vermin! Mattachin snarled, thoroughly confused himself.  
It's the trap you're looking for, Raglé flatly remarked.   
At the indeterminate mustelid's sudden clarity, Mattachin's own speech was thrown off yet again. Wait, what so mean, er...  
Raglé smirked, reverting to her previous mannerism. Identical monoliths you seek, duplicate towers you sight—the dominion is thus of the bearded adversary. Airborne be not—altitude is sighted, elevation will monitor. Observe the proximity, caution the approach. Architectural doubling forthcoming emits multiples aloft—time table specifics currently indistinct. This present avenue is true; may guard accompany your passage.  
With that, Raglé easily bound back into the trees and was off, the flicker of her earthtone gauze garments indistinct against the shifting leaves.


	30. III: The Flight and the Fallen: 28

Things were being cleaned up. The toppled kitchenware had been returned to its proper places in the room. The infirmary had been restocked, the charred bedsheets replaced. All the ash had been swept from Great Hall and transferred to the gardens as fertilizer. The path leading to the Abbey had been cleared, and the space between the inner and outer walls reopened.  
And the wall edge was clean, too—the temporary barrier placed immediately after the attack had been removed piece by piece as the wall shards were excavated. Teams of moles had them proceeded to dislodge the crooked edges that showed the impact's contour, stripping down the wall until the first rows of untouched bricks were exposed. The edge became straight and geometrical, cleaved with care, construction as opposed to destruction. Somehow more benign.  
They'd cleared up the remnants of living matter as well. In some cases, the most distinct remaining form was a charred tail or a severed paw, unmatchable to individual or even species. These were set aside, cremated in a compartment of broken walls tones. Most of the dead, however, were largely intact and recognizable—horrible lifeless visages that no longer seemed quite the loved ones they once were.  
The memorial session had to be held while the campaigners were still out seeking revenge. Practical and moral standards alike would not have allowed the bodies to remain unburied for such an extent of time. And thus they were buried—Abbot, Badgermum, Friar, Brothers and Sisters, Novices, Dibbuns—flanking the interior cleaved edges of the wall which caused their demise. The day was clear, though the autumn light was uncharacteristically harsh and cold. The entire ceremony was hardly a true ceremony, and took place with minimal verbal exchange. All present understood the inappropriateness of spoken elaboration.  
Reconstruction began the next day. The West Wall was to be replaced by teams working outside the Abbey grounds, building inside to outside so as to not disturb the freshly-covered graves. There had been talk from the memorial committee of laying the first row of the new segment with exploded bits of the old, but this plan was rejected with little contest when the issue of the structural soundness of rubble was mentioned. Thus the replaced wall was to consist entirely of the new sandstone blocks that Amos and Gabbro had cut from the old quarry.  
The wall was to be as it always had been. Only Ustela took issue with this. The young badger suggested that the opening be turned into a gate, another entry to the Abbey as it had been cleared. She argued that, in learning from the tragedy and in looking for warning signs, Redwall could not grow cold and lock others out. The placement and width of the gate would explain its own presence and would warrant hushed respect, but at once it would show the healing and warmth of a community that welcomed and didn't threaten, that had been injured but not damaged.  
Ustela's idea was turned down. Historically, Redwall had attackers. According to record, each new era of attackers—and defenders—knew and cared little about past confrontations. Long after this current affair was over and became little-regarded history, another gate would have meaning only as another vulnerability. Furthermore, those responsible for this had yet to be affirmatively squelched. Redwall had walls for a reason. It still would have those walls.  
The first and bottom row of new sandstone bricks was laid across the hole in the West Wall two weeks after the impact. The monument would come later, when there was proper time for remembrance.


	31. III: The Flight and the Fallen: 29

What in the name of Martin, Matthias, and Methuselah was _that_ all about?!  
Mattachin was livid, confronting Nyctllr and Troyte with his full rodentine rage, gesticulating madly at the trees and the path for several seconds after he finished speaking.  
That was Raglé, Nyc told Mattachin flatly, still squinting unadjustedly in the daylight.  
Redwall's champion swung his arms about in wide exaggerated circles. I know that, she told us that, that's the only part any sane beast could make anything of. But why's she here, what about the rest, you obviously know something about this beast, so spit it out!  
Nyctllr remained polite. We met once. If you could really call it that. She just showed up and talked at us, inaccessible as she just was, then disappeared in much the same way. Whatever she said had little consequence.  
Mattachin didn't seem to approve of this description. But those _faces_ she made at you, that definitely meant something, though what it was wasn't clearer than anything else!  
I think she just wants us to agree with her that she's crazy, Troyte casually interjected. 'Cause there's no doubt on that one. She caught up with us when we were jaunting over to Redwall. All sorts of stuff about crimson quadrangles and similar rot. Wasn't a help, but it wasn't hampering either. I think the beast just loves to see such pleasantly confused countenances as your own, my dear Matt.  
Mattachin did not want to see the expression that provoked that remark from the hawk. Fortunately, there were no reflective surfaces immediately at paw.  
Come to think of it, Nyc mused, backing a bit into the trees to let the shadows rest her eyes, she's probably giving directions in her own little way. She mentions objectives, directives, proximities, and destinations quite a bit.  
Oh great. So those are directions. Last time I checked, directions were supposed to make sense! Mattachin exploded again, causing notable vibrations of foliage.  
That crimson quadrangle is probably Redwall, Troyte concluded, proud of himself even in the face of tirade.  
Mattachin kept at it. If we're getting directions, it'll be because I ask for them, and I know the way! Well, er, you two know the way and I trust you in your noble goal! And I can _understand_ both of you! So you said it's this path, and that it'll be, and you can even fly ahead to be sure!  
Mm, don't think that's a good idea, Nyc offered from the shade. 'Airborne be not' is pretty clear to me. And duplicate towers.'  
And whatever it was about high places that see stuff, Troyte interpreted before even hearing out Nyc's entire point.  
the bat noted. Simply, they'll see us as we approach regardless, but they'd see us better in the air than on the ground. You can camouflage an army, but not a speck against the sky.  
That won't be a problem, Mattachin hissed, because my army cannot fly!  
Nyc extended a wing. They can't. Nadal's can. Not by their own means, of course, but they can. They're the aloft multiples,' I believe. So we stick to this path and watch out. Which, I suppose, is common sense, but we take it as advice and not as malice.  
Arms crossed, Mattachin noted, So if it's common sense, we didn't have to figure it out, and we'd have taken less time.  
Troyte folded his wings. You didn't get it.  
Shut up. We're marching now.


	32. III: The Flight and the Fallen: 30

Nadal ob Insame frowned at the parchment in his paw, utter discontent written all over his face—and yet no anger directed at any individual creature. Which, given Nadal's normal termperament, was actually all the more troubling.  
At length, the weasel laid the page aside and gazed with some calculation out the window of the tower. One word escaped his lips.   
Kaliban and Thadius Roth were the only other beasts in the room; of the two of them, the rat spoke up. Seems alf decent t' me, at least. Iff'n you don't mind my thoughts, o' course. See, there's been beasts sayin' they've seen that loony Enigma creature about, an' you know wot that means. She only ever shows up when summat is brewin', an' that's clearer than wot she's ever said.  
I told her to get out of the area, Nadal stated. Even if she'd made an effort to assist us, she just gets in the way. The weasel gritted his teeth. But do continue.  
Kaliban nodded. So she's about, an' I figgered that takin' a look about the area wouldn't hurt. So Holdsclaw an' I went—with yer pardon now—an' there's definnily an army on the way.  
Nadal twisted the tip of his beard around a claw. And why does that warrant evacuation?  
The towers. Kaliban shrugged. If they were occupied an' attacked an' they fell...  
My towers will not fall. Until this point, Thadius Roth had been silent, but now the fox spoke with practically threatening undertones. That is not an issue. My towers cannot fall.  
_Your_ towers? Kaliban was surprised at this claim, fully expecting a rebuttal against Roth from Nadal.  
Roth continued. I designed these towers to be stable, so that they would not fall. They have already done quite well against wind and weather, you see. For them to fall, they would have to be hit high up or otherwise cut off—and the supports weakened for more than half of the perimeter at that. There is no means to create such damage. My towers cannot fall.  
Even Nadal was distinctly surprised to hear so much at once from the architect fox. Excellent. But, he again regarded the military rat, you say attack is imminent?  
They're not goin' away without confrontation, that's fer sure, Kaliban confirmed.  
There followed an extended silence, during which Nadal stared out the window and formulated plans, Kaliban shuffled in a nervous blur about his most important correspondence yet, and Roth stood in firm and almost defiant reaction to the mention of potentially losing his masterwork towers.  
Fitting of his position, Nadal broke the silence. The command shall evacuate. My most important aides will come with me. If the fight comes here, we can lose as many soldiers as needed, but the head must not be severed. The army will stay in the towers, and nobeast will tell them this plan. My entourage and I will slip out to the foothill caves to the northeast of here. The towers are visible from there, but no enemy could find a beast hiding in those caves. The weasel's tone was calm, but his eyes did indicate some of the ill feeling of worry.  
Kaliban nodded, then queried, Who's gonna control the troops in the time we're all out there?  
You lead the troops, Nadal reminded Kaliban. You are part of the troops. You stay here.  
The rat stood, clearly disappointed, frightened of being in immediate command yet still expendable, and definitely desiring a safe hideout in the caves.  
There will be a courier, Nadal explained, then motioned Roth to follow him out.


	33. III: The Flight and the Fallen: 31

The travelers had completely lost track of time. Mattachin was too busy pondering his glorious retirement after the war to count days, hours, or whatever may have passed. Nyctllr was working quite admirably against her biological clock, but her concentrating on resting properly in dark and remaining awake in light was more important than the number of darks and lights. And Troyte, well, Troyte's utter lack of time sense was an example of from where the term came.  
Suffice it to say that the force from Redwall went a good distance geographically, and took roughly a few days.  
It was during the afternoon that they reached land which folded into hills and mountains—not the large ones of the actual range, of course, but after much traversing of relative flatness, the change was significant.  
Particularly significant to Mattachin were two oddly rectangular formations sticking up from the foot of the mountains. What's that? the warrior mouse queried obliviously.  
Nyc did not seem even remotely pleased by this appearance. You'll see, she muttered. We'll walk a little ways longer, and you'll definitely see.  
So, as expected, they walked. Mattachin kept his eyes forward, awed and worried by the increasingly apparent heights before him.  
The mouse marveled at the twin structures, incomprehension of mere size blocking the notion that this was the enemy's base, at least for the time being.  
I guess they're nice-looking buildings, if you think of them only as buildings, Troyte observed with delicate optimism. Kind of a shame, really.  
But they're not just buildings, so we can stop with that train of thought now. As bats live in caves, they generally have little appreciation for architecture. Nyc continued, The one with the thing sticking out the top of it, that's where all the prisoners are kept on the top floor. I know that ob Insame himself, the rat Kaliban, and the fox Roth are in there quite a bit, but they speak loudly of quarters in the other tower. The horde is primarily in that tower as well—they're easy to hear. I don't think that many of them, if any, are housed in the other tower—you could see them drilling from the window, and none went in to the other that I could see. My guess is that the primary barracks are in the that tower, and the brains of the operation, so to speak, in the other. The entire explanation was given with a very cold tone.  
Mattachin squinted toward the distant lower levels. Are they well guarded?  
No way to know for certain, Troyte mused. But he's got other birds up high that'll probably tell things on the threat of their lives.  
Nyctllr nodded. I'm not sure about the bottom either. Might be, might not. Regardless, if the bottom's alerted, everyone from the top floor down can descend upon any attacker. It's all very sketchy.  
We'll take our chances, Mattachin decided, perhaps too quickly for comfort. Because they sure got lucky in actually hitting Redwall. And we're better than those evil beasts would be if they were as good as they are evil, so we'll beat them! Most of you will go after the troops—we'll take ob Insame. Mattachin drew Martin's sword as if he was going to signal the charge that very instant.  
Nyctllr interjected. They'll be drowsy and less aware. Predawn. In the dark.  
Mattachin almost interrupted the bat with a rebuttal—you're nocturnal of course you'd say that—but then the utter importance of timing asserted itself in his head. Error could easily cost him the battle—and his reputation. Yes. Predawn. We go.


	34. III: The Flight and the Fallen: 32

Some creatures are in their element as a second-in-command. They are dutiful, loyal, and determined, but only if there is someone a level above them in the chain of command. Remove that top link, however, and these individuals lose all sense of anything, able to think somewhat on their own, but unable to act without higher approval.  
Kaliban was one such beast. All confidence and fearsomeness had departed from the rat's being as Nadal and Thadius had departed for the caves with a small guard in tow. Now, the military commander had confined himself to ob Insame's South Tower top floor sanctuary, with a full complement of guards inside and outside the door.  
A full complement of guards. Meaning everybeast in the complex that was trained to hold such a post.  
  


*****  
  


Drayno and Ajaks were at their posts at the base of the North Tower. They were most definitively physically at their posts, and they showed no intent of abandoning. The two ferrets were like rocks in their positions—both in terms of immobility and consciousness.  
Drayno and Ajaks did not even dislodge from their stations as the stream of armed woodlanders filed into the tower. They were truly defiant in their snores, their expressions unchanging. The very most dedicated of guards indeed.  
  


*****  
  


The Redwallian aggressors progressed smoothly up the North Tower, with members deploying at each level to take care of its occupants. Many vermin were axed off completely in the dark—ruthless and out-of-character.  
The goings on toward the bottom were particularly tidy, as dozing or drowsy creatures can hardly make sense of a dagger to the throat, certainly not in enough time to counter with a similar move. It was not war but rather murder, and it was the quickest way of doing things in this case. It was not until the entire invading force was in the upper third of the tower that the odor of blood from below stirred the vermin at the top into action.  
  


*****  
  


The bowbeasts were separate from the guards. In preparation to demolish the rest of Redwall, a huge bow and its complement of giant fire arrows had been fitted to the top of both towers. The bowbeasts had not been told when their attack would be launched, but were to be on guard for whenever the opportune moment was announced.  
The group stationed atop the North Tower was a bit more instinctive than that. As the interior battle clattered upward inside, the very roof on which they were stationed vibrated uneasily. They had no thoughts of anything such as a collapse; rather, the team commander conjectured that a similar attack was most likely progressing up the other tower as well. He knew it was Nadal's tower, but he didn't know what else was there. He knew that Nadal had means of evacuating, and any other beasts that might have shared that tower with the commander were of no consequence.  
There were volunteers to ride the arrows. They had not been informed of the suicidal nature of such a ride, which would explain why they had volunteered. One marten stepped forward in this case and positioned himself to control the wing mechanisms. The rest of the crew put the arrow to the giant bow and lit the fires, then pulled the string as taut as possible. The captain aimed, the marten flexed the artificial wings, the crew let go, and suddenly they all understood the nature of the contraption as the giant winged fire arrow plunged directly into the South Tower.  


*****  
  


The fireball started small—an orange puncture into the smooth face of glass, metal, and wood. Yet with the mixing of inside and outside air through the new hole, the cloud billowed outward, grey-black edged with luminous orange, spewing ashes and structural fragments downward.  
The wind was blowing south to north, and thus the smoke carried, enveloping the top of both towers like a horrid streaming banner. All the while, the semi-severed top of the South Tower twitched and quivered on reduced supports, those still standing enduring the pressure of the fire arrow's explosive heat.  
  


*****  
  


In addition to being entirely insecure of his command, Kaliban was also becoming notably paranoid. Every motion from the guards made him twitch, every flick of a shadow had him worrying. Despite his overly sufficient guard force, he wished he could personally monitor all of the outward-facing windows in the chamber. At one point, he could have sworn that he saw two winged silhouettes, one large and one small, flying up to the top of the tower.  
He tried to calm himself. He knew he was panicking and he disliked it, but he wanted to be safe and hiding in the caves and he definitely still worried. He could not, however, deny the monstrous shudder that the tower suddenly gave, nor the dark and roiling curtain that obscured the window.  
Terrified beyond all comprehension, Kaliban burst out onto the roof, then nearly stumbled back in at the sight of bat, mouse, and hawk figures in the smoke.


	35. III: The Flight and the Fallen: 33

Where's Nadal? Nyctllr queried coldly, even through the burning atmosphere.  
Kaliban stumbled, not liking the bat's tone, the mouse's hateful gaze and gleaming sword, or the hawk's sheer size and sharpness of talon and beak. The crackling and groaning of the floundering building wasn't much helping either, nor was the utter unhelpfulness of the South Tower bow crew.  
Where is Nadal ob Insame? Nyc repeated, loathing expressed in every syllable of the name.  
Kaliban was scared of this beast, even though the mouse appeared to be directing his malevolent glare more directly at him. He's not here, the rat responded.  
Mattachin swung Martin's sword menacingly. So, then, where is the weasel himself, rat?  
He left a couple o' days ago, Kaliban sputtered, incapable of lying under such stress. Left the towers an' went out t' the mountains t' hide in the caves. I'm in charge, it's just me.  
Nyctllr's eyes were suited to the artificial dark, and her keen hearing made it all the more possible for her to hone in on Kaliban. Just you, eh? She still sounded dangerous, though not in the sense that she planned to personally kill him.  
Kaliban nodded.  
That evil murderous being has jumped ship, leaving everyone in this mess to die so that he lives to kill again?  
The rat thought a moment, then grudgingly nodded again.   
Nyc fanned the hot air and smoke away with her wingsails. Do tell about these caves.  
Kaliban gesticulated blindly through the smoke. Over that way, bout alf a day's walk, mebbe a quarter. Hilly rocky parts, though I don't know just which cave.  
With a curt nod, Nyc noted, That will be all.  
Kaliban could not help but gawk a bit. You're...not gonna kill me right here an' now?  
I don't need to, Nyc smirked. There's a huge gaping burning hole in the side of this building, and that fire's not going out on its own. There's no way the top can hold for long. You'll be crushed in the fall. And I thank you for your information, the bat added darkly.  
She turned, wings spread, Troyte following, prepared to collect Mattachin and evacuate the burning tower. The mouse warrior, however, had been obscured by the smoke. Already definitely stressed enough, Nyctllr was frantic as she echolocated through the dense crackling air. Fortunately, smoke does not overly distort sonic form.  
She found Mattachin. He was not, as she had feared, dead. She still feared, though, for the mouse warrior had easily intimidated the bow crew into doing what he wished. At that point, he was straddling an arrow, attempting to figure out its mechanisms while it was being lit and fit to the bow.  
What in blazes are you doing?! Nyctllr screeched, unaware of the irony in her choice of phrase.  
Mattachin looked grimly back. Nadal's not in this tower, and I don't trust that rat worth anything about those caves. What if he's over in there? And even if he's not, his whole army is. He can't do damage, he won't if it would mean putting himself in the line to be killed.  
Nyc gave Mattachin a look of terrified desperation. _Our_ soldiers are in there, too! Do this and you're killing yourself _and_ them! Do you not care about all of those lives?!  
It's less of an evil if we get rid of the ultimate evil. With that, Mattachin swung the sword at the chief bowbeast, who took the signal and, with his crew, released the string. The arrow shot forth, and with no second thought Nyctllr bounded off the tower after it. She forced her entire weight against the arrow shaft, and as its course did not alter, she used the last moment to knock Mattachin off the arrow. She tried to suspend him in air, only to find his weight too much for her sails. They plummeted in a horrifying second, ground closing in, or at least until feathers came between it and them. Troyte had used gravity, height, and natural streamlining to his advantage, and had plunged after Nyc, prepared to make precisely the catch that he did.  
The arrow continued forward, smashing directly into the North Tower. The fireball billowed out toward the other tower, meshing with the first cloud, enhancing the clash of dark and flame before being dragged along by the wind as well. In other circumstances, this could be considered a beautiful example of thermodynamics. In this case, though, it was just horrifying.  
The second arrow hit lower down on its tower than the first had, clipping a corner and thus weakening the structure even further. And to consider the added weight of the Redwallers and vermin, locked in combat until the distraction of the blow...The severed section teetered precariously until heat and weight finally had their way. The crack that accompanied its detachment resounded like thunder, and its echo lingered as the top third went down, perfectly vertical, ringed in smoke, bringing the other levels down in column exactly perpendicular to the ground.  
Some creatures streamed out of the North Tower barely in time to escape its own descent. All others, friend and foe alike to either side, were crushed. Troyte sped away from the scene, with Mattachin looking hatefully forward and Nyctllr horrifiedly back. And atop the quickly weakening South Tower, Kaliban knew he was going to die, but he was too afraid to even decide whether or not to jump.


	36. III: The Flight and the Fallen: 34

The smoke did not reach into the caves. It billowed away from its source, staining the air and drifting over plateau, through trees, and around peaks in whichever directions. The caves, however, were far and low enough not to be smoked out.  
And yet everything was perfectly visible from the caves. Both towers had been in plain sight; the one remaining was still unobstructed, spewing black clouds, its structural integrity visually and irreversibly declining.  
Nadal ob Insame and Thadius Roth watched from their hidden sanctuary, so taken by the cataclysm that looking away simply was not an option. The fox's face was disbelieving and supremely disappointed, his eyes revealing a spirit who'd just lost something that was far more than merely important. The weasel maintained a face of stone, though his eyes too were stressed—in this case, the stress of an individual dealing with physical complications of mental concerns.  
They watched as the South Tower finally gave in under its own stresses, collapsing down upon itself, containing its own remnants very well, though knocking smoke and dust and a literal smell of catastrophe into the air.  
Nadal ob Insame appeared paler, sicker, and his voice was not well. Nevertheless, he spoke. I seem to recall your saying that these towers were not capable of being knocked down.  
Fingers twitching uncontrollably, Thadius Roth faced Nadal. The architect fox was hardly in the mood to talk about what had just transpired, and the mention of his design lit yet another fire behind his gaze. You knocked down my towers.  
Such a dangerous tone had never previously emitted from Roth's mouth, and that was an obvious blow to the weasel. That is an impossible accusation, Roth.  
Thadius shook his head, still quivering. No, no it is not. You knocked them down, right from the start, since they were built.  
I had them built, Nadal responded, off his guard. In his many seasons of control, the weasel had never received backtalk. The fact that the first time was from the normally soft-spoken Thadius Roth was not helping his condition.  
Yes, you did that, but that was still knocking them down. The fox proceeded to clarify this paradox. You never told me why you had me build, never. I could infer some things, but you never told me and you kept me too busy to combine my inferences. That is very clever of you, but you _kill_ creatures and _ruin_ things and that eliminates _everything_ else.  
I am a designer, an inventor, a scientist. It was blind of me not to see what you had me do. Perhaps I did not wish to see it, but now it is all too plain in what is now absent. I wanted to build highest and go farthest and make the newest things, and I _did_, but it was all for _death_ and now even the physical part is _gone_. Without you I could try to restore its image, but you destroyed _everything_.  
Thadius finished his anguished tirade, then leaned back against a rock, his tremors showing no sign of ceasing.  
Nadal was quivering as well, though in his case his stomach condition had used his stress as an opportunity to take over. Choosing not to remark on the bulk of the accusations, he weakly wheedled, So you are against needless deaths? Excellent, then. You have my medicine with you?  
The fox wordlessly stood and ran from the cave.


	37. III: The Flight and the Fallen: 35

Troyte flew low over the foothills, weaving and bobbing maladroitly. He'd proven earlier that he was more than capable of agility, but he'd apparently used up his quota of it for the day. The hawk was able to avoid further impacts, but an aware rider surely would have reconsidered air travel after such transport.  
Troyte's current passengers, however, were not very aware. Both Mattachin and Nyctllr sustained exhaustion from smoke inhalation and from their fall. Vengeance and distraught filled mouse and bat respectively, effectively detaching them from an already surreal reality.  
It was the hawk who noticed the fox's red fur against the sandy rocks. Taking care with his aim, Troyte descended. The rush of air drew Mattachin's attention to the fore, and at the sight of a vermin species, he drew his sword to swing. This in turn caught Nyctllr's eye, and she once again deflected the warrior's intention. No more, not today, she chastised wearily.  
Thadius Roth did not even shuffle to the side as Troyte landed beside him, his two passengers sliding onto the ground. Roth stated simply, face too worn to exhibit proper emotion, I believe you will want to see what I have to show.  
Mattachin again moved to strike a blow, but this time Troyte deflected it with the effortless flick of a talon. Wordlessly, the trio followed the fox.  
They clambered over rocks and outcroppings, periodically passing fissures and faults. It was remarkable that Thadius knew the way so assuredly in a landscape without landmark. They finally reached a cave that appeared like all the others, which Roth entered and motioned for the trio to follow. The narrow entrance quickly widened into a sizable room, already somewhat furnished for the purpose of hiding.  
Nadal ob Insame was in the corner. Immediately recognizing the dictator via description, Mattachin lunged forth yet again, only to stop in his tracks with the sword held above his head. The weasel's form was rigid, tightly curled up, claws extended but puncturing the palms of his clenched forepaws. The dark eyes were screwed shut, the incisive fangs bared in a grimace of physical anguish. Spittle covered Nadal's lower lip and dribbled onto his beard. It remained still, however—there was no indication of breathing.  
Roth held up a small vial. It was only a matter of a small amount of unmedicated time. His voice remained unemotional and scientific.  
With a titanic scream, Mattachin plunged Martin's sword into the ground, shattering a chunk of sandstone next to the dead weasel's head.  
So, I guess it's over then, Troyte ventured.  
Still seething, Mattachin retrieved the weapon and admitted, At least we won.  
Nobody won, Nyctllr said softly. It's over, but nobody won. Everything is gone, everyone is dead. Nothing is the same. That's not winning anything. What do we tell Redwall? What do we tell _history_? We tell the truth, that it's all dead because we all made inexcusable mistakes. And we don't let it happen again. We don't let it happen that things are ever in need of winning or losing again. Nobody won. I only hope we can make it mean something.   
Thadius looked at Nyc, his expression altering to indicate agreement. Troyte bowed his head, and Mattachin refrained from comment.  
When they left the cave, Nadal ob Insame remained unburied.


	38. III: The Flight and the Fallen: 36

_Excerpt from the writings of Sister Oxalis, Recorder of Redwall Abbey:_  
It is one autumn past the Autumn of the Copper Beech, and there is no name for it yet. Everybeast seems focused on that past season; everybeast's mind including my own started counting to eleven day by day at the turn of the season.  
Already full circle from the day that the wall and our lives were shattered, the day that our fighters left to triumph over evil, and the day that four beasts came back with nothing. The loss was beyond description—perhaps it is for the best that I did not try to describe it in full, even for all it might teach. And we still grieve for them all. Life had restored itself, daily processes had restarted, and routines reformed. Yet with the anniversaries closing in, the general tone of existance in Redwall lacks vitality. It undoubtedly will take seasons and seasons for scar tissue to close this wound; I think it cannot ever heal completely.  
The wall is a different story. Even with fighters and laborers gone permanently, the community will to patch what could be patched. Everybeast in Redwall must have laid at least one stone in the gap, and thus it was entirely sealed with hard new sandstone by midsummer.  
The issue of a monument was a very curious one. No designs were suggested that did not receive some opposition from some of the remaining abbeybeasts. The one decided upon was the joint effort of Ustela and the fox Thadius Roth. Now, he is a curious character—he admits right off that he worked for ob Insame, and that his inventions' incorrect implementation were what killed everything. No effort to obscure that at all, despite whatever reactions he receives. Yet currently, he is utterly caught up in the perfectionistic way of doing everything _correctly_ and _innovatively_—morally and practically.  
Akh, but I've gone on a bit of a tangent, or I would have gone further if I hadn't caught myself. Anyhow, Thadius' requirement of doing things _correctly_ extended to the commemoration of these horrid times.  
The memorial—though it is hopefully still there for you now, future reader—is thus: a copper beech planted on either side of the rebuilt wall segment, currently small but destined to be majestic. On the inside of the wall, above the graves of those who were killed in the initial impact, are two columns of names—a listing of every Redwaller whose life was cut short in this whole affair.  
I am pleased that the objections to this design were minimal.  
The actual ceremonies will be simple as well—it is impossible to overstate loss of such a magnitude, and trying to do so would be disastrous. While some in the Abbey still regard this as a victory over evil, they are in the minority. Small ceremony and understatement will do well.  
I fear, however, that those outspoken few may shape future views for the worse. Our Warrior as among them, and while he argues optimism, there's a difference between hope for the future and making the future appear brighter by cleaning up the past.  
As much as it pains me to write about this all, I do because it needs to be in the records next to all of Redwall's historical successes. The future needs to see that nobody is always right, and that some solutions are just not good—but that trying to be right is good if it's based on solid knowledge of the past.  
I shall continue to record reactions and developments on this for the rest of my time. All of us here now lived it, but any future reader will need to know in order to understand and to learn. May the dust of time leave this manuscript untouched.  
  
—Sis. Oxalis, Rec'dr


	39. Epilogue

Ustela stopped speaking at last, wiping her striped brow with a massive forepaw. Her narrative had remained strong and forceful, yet it was evident that the recollections were a weakness to her. She quivered ever so slightly, expression distant and far more vulnerable than what was proper for her post.  
The youngbeasts of Redwall sat in a semicircle facing the Badger Mother, silently transfixed by the tail. Perhaps it was too gruesome for their ages, but one might argue that the earlier a deep point is made, the more significant it remains in the mind. Such was clearly the case for Ustela.  
Out of the silent semicircle, one voice finally offered remark—the voice of Grumby the molemaid. Urr, marm, wot arpened to zurr others, miz bat, and zurr Troit, and thur wurrier?  
Ustela hesitated, considering how to put these things for the age of her audience. She soon realized, though, that nothing was any more horrifying than what she'd already disclosed. The badger swallowed a few times, then continued.  
Troyte left to go back home. He'd left a family when he was captured, and he wanted to go back there. His real home was more than what Redwall offered to him. He did visit every so often. It really does make sense.  
Thadius Roth the fox went off _somewhere_...I don't know where. I'd like to think that he's still resolved to make up for what all of his previous work did. At least if we've heard nothing, that means there's been nothing else bad.  
Mattachin, well, he became more arrogant and pompous by the day—which I shouldn't or couldn't say at the time. But he's gone now, and I can talk. He grew extremely paranoid and went entirely against the judgment of all others—he wouldn't listen to anybody about anything. Even food. He ate something rotten once, and it's ironic that his stomach took him out, just like Nadal's did.  
And Nyctllr, well, she never got over it all. Things should get better with time, but her state of mind only deteriorated with each anniversary. I think she blamed herself—incorrectly, I say—for Mattachin's setting off that last arrow. But it got worse, and she decided that she couldn't have any more anniversaries. So she, well, made them stop. With a dagger.  
Ustela stopped again, breath heavy, expression still distant. It was clear she'd had more than enough emotional strain from her retelling.  
The semicircle of Dibbuns reached a collective realization that the tale was at its narrative conclusion. Standing in groups at at a time, Redwall's youngbeasts wandered off in their own ways, solemn and contemplative, not at all the rambunctious group that had gathered earlier for a tale of rampant heroism.  
Grumby alone stayed behind, gently tugging Ustela's habit with a digging claw.   
Ustela looked down at the tiny mole, managing a weak smile.   
Oi'm roight sorry Oi wuz troyin to floiy. Oi didn't know, burr aye. But iff'n Oi ever do floy, Oi prummis Oi'll make eem bad floyers stop. Grumby nodded emphatically, looking up into the clear blue sky.  
Ustela smiled sadly. Dibbuns were so utterly fanciful—and yet, they so clearly learned. The value of experience would live on, and the values of previous deaths would serve to help future lives.


	40. Afterword

  
I procrastinated on this story. I wrote it in spurts, between October of 2001 and September of 2003. I had the general storyline in mind the entire time, but only in framework form. Had this story been written in less time closer together, it undoubtedly would be very different than the current manuscript is.  
Had this all been completed in the final months of 2001, the ending would have been very different. Both towers still would have collapsed, but they both would have fallen for heroism, and Redwall would have emerged truly triumphant. The tone of the time was patriotic, and as much as I disagree with post-9-11 patriotism syndrome right now, I admit that I felt strongly for my country at the time.  
Had this been entirely a work of mid-2003, well, I wouldn't have started it that late. I'd developed other ideas for commemoration, ones that I liked far better. Though I've finished this now, I currently don't feel that a Redwall setting is really suitable for a 9-11 metaphor. If I _had_ started it that late, though, the twin towers certainly wouldn't have been evil. I don't recall why I decided they were to begin with, but to equate the World Trade Center to evil now strikes me as horribly wrong. But I could not change such an integral detail two thirds of the way into the story.  
But this _was_ a story written over a long time, and that allowed me to draw parallels to things that developed within that time. There, of course, had not been earlier intentions to allude to the unnecessary deaths of the Iraq war. And most notably, perhaps, Mattachin was not initially intended to represent George W. Bush. He just evolved into that, and it fit the direction the story had turned.  
The whole story really was an evolution, both of events and of my views in relation to those events. Though I admittedly lost interest in this story for a while, I think it's stronger for that evolution. And yet, quite frankly, I'm pleased that it's reached its conclusion. It stopped being a tribute for me, and it started being a chronicling duty, and I can only hope I chronicled what a tribute need be.  
  
_11 September 2003_


	41. Appendix

As usual, the names of the characters in this story are derived from some other source. In this case, though, most of those sources have nothing to do with the subject matter of the story, and thus I supply no long explanations.  
  
**Nyctllr**—This can be abbreviated NYC, which is self-explanatory.  
**Llewtcy**—Pronounced it's spelled this way so I could use the letters WTC. Also self-explanatory.  
**Fyngall's Cave**—From Fingal's Cave, a Mendelssohn overture.  
**Troyte Nevinson Sinclair**—Names taken from three separate movements of Edward Elgar's Enigma Variations. The Troyte in the piece is a clumsy good-natured type as well.  
**Raglé the Enigma**—Raglé is Elgar spelled backwards. The same Elgar who wrote the Enigma Variations. I was rehearsing this piece while writing the segment of the story in which she first appears.  
**Mattachin**—Movement name from Peter Warlock's Capriol Suite, roughly translated to sword dance.  
**Bransles**—Another movement name from the Capriol Suite.  
**Nadal ob Insame**—Anagram of Osama bin Laden.  
**Kaliban**—This is the name of a horrifying cave-dwelling Shakespearean monster (only with a K instead of a C), and it sounds like Taliban, who were horrible and hung out in caves as well.  
**Thadius Roth**—Thaddeus Lowe was a Civil War aeronaut, one of the first to use hot air balloons for anything. Emery Roth was in charge of the architectural firm responsible for the World Trade Center.  
**Holdsclaw**—This is the surname of a WNBA player. I don't even follow sports, but I heard this name on the news and immediately knew I had to use it for a bird in a Redwall story.  
**Quillfletcher**—Generic bird name, though if you didn't catch on, this fellow is where the fletching for the giant arrows came from.  
**Ustela**—From the family name for mustelids.  
**Grumby**—From the name of a former teacher of mine, whose name sounded molelike to me.  
**Kammer**—From the name of another former teacher, just to tease him.  
**Raskol**—From Raskolnikov, main character in Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment. There is no reason for my using this other than the fact that it sounds good.  
**Rohan and Gregory**—I knew a violinist named Rohan Gregory, and he was quite the nutty character. I wanted to involve him somehow, and these guys are it.  
**Gabbro**—A kind of rock.  
**Amos Stickley**—One of the landmarks on Cedar Creek Battlefield in the Shenandoah Valley is the Amos Stickley Farm. Upon passing it while touring the battlefield, I knew I had a perfect hedgehog name right there.  
**Oxalis**—A type of yellow wildflower.  
**Millet**—A type of grain.  
**Marne**—A river in France, about which Ned Rorem wrote a nice saxophone sonata that I happened to hear while working on this story.  
**Ajaks and Drayno**—Ajax and Drano. Like the cleaning projects. This is what happens when I'm looking for disposable vermin names late at night.  
**Nuthead**—It's a perfectly plausible Sparra name. I couldn't not do it.


End file.
